Remorse
by Letsnottalkaboutitaye
Summary: Feliciano Vargas hates his name but he can't escape it. Not when it's tied in so tightly to the Calabrian mafia. When their drug trade seems to be under attack by a mister Antonio Carriedo, Feliciano and Lovino find themselves in Naples with a certain German body guard. NOT A ROMANCE. Rating may go up. OOC; AU; HU; MP?; AV; PH
1. Warnings and prelude

**WARNING!**

* * *

This story is going to be quite dark. It deals with themes such as murder, mental instability, and suicide. It is written in one POV (aside from the resolution) and could be too much for some readers.

* * *

 _His hands were still_

 _His heart was steady_

 _His gaze was forgotten._

 _His hands were red_

 _His heart was steady_

 _His gaze was forgotten._

 _His hands were still_

 _His heart was light_

 _His gaze was forgotten._

 _His hands were still_

 _His heart was steady_

 _His gaze took in the scene before him._

 _Hands_

 _Heart_

 _Gaze_

 _Hands to pray_

 _Heart to love_

 _Gaze to peer_

 _Sin_

 _Sin_

 _Sin_

* * *

 **FIC PLAYLIST**

 _Mama_ – My Chemical Romance

 _The Mountain_ – Three Days Grace

 _Satellite_ – Rise Against

 _Toast to the Ghost_ – Bad Wolves

 _Omerta_ – Lamb of God

 _45_ \- Shinedown

 _Blood in the Water_ – Grandson

 _War of Change_ – Thousand Foot Krutch

 _I Apologize_ – Five Finger Death Punch

 _Fallen Angel_ – Three Days Grace

 _My Demons_ \- Starset

 _Rise_ – Fame on Fire

 _Bulletproof_ \- Godsmack

 _Point of No Return_ \- Starset

 _Soldier_ – Fleurie

You can find the playlist here: user/letusfallup/playlist/4aBYwZvYfrtEiF86HC3rjg


	2. Mama

Talking. Everywhere. There was no where he could go to get away from it. The world shifted and dipped as the ferry slid across the waters; mist, cool and abundant, added to the moisture on his cheeks, his hands clutching the railing in such a manner that turned his knuckles pallid.

Anger caused his tears, he told himself. Odious Lovino, refusing him the simplest company today. The fifth year he would mourn their mother's passing alone. His grip tightened further. And to be so gelid to have never even shed a tear for her. Not today, not five years ago when a gun man struck her down despite the Vargas name. Never had he cried. Never had he loved. He was atrocious, despicable, and the worst thing that could have happened to Feliciano.

More tears kissed his quivering chin. He was playing the pity game, cajoling his mind away from the pain. It was doing him less good than bad. His heart wavered, extreme guilt for beshaming his brother so critically breathing into him. Lovino was a busy person—right hand man to their grandfather in Sicily, slowly working Vargas influence into Sicily's puerile state of organized crime—and when it came down to it, Lovino did truly care. Somewhere deep within himself. Feliciano was sure of it.

He honestly felt bad for Lovino. Maybe if his brother hadn't been raised under a mafia boss's control he would have accomplished so much more. Stayed in school longer; stayed away from the heroin; joined a band or learned to paint. Maybe if Grandpa cared more for his family than he did for his money Lovino would be happy.

"The ferry will be there soon, _Signore_ Vargas." His guard announced in a low voice, keeping the name between the two of them.

Feliciano nodded, using his sleeve to wipe his face. " _Si—Si_. Tell me, will we be taking train or car the rest of the way."

"Car, _Signore_."

"The driver?"

"Beilschmidt."

Feliciano nodded. He was a bit concerned with the choice his grandfather had made. Not the choice of choosing the German to chauffeur him the rest of the way, but the choice of putting that same German in place of power until the Vargases could return to Calabria. Only the lord above could know what Gilbert was doing in name of their reign.

Of course, it wasn't like it could be worse than what the Vargases did with it.

* * *

The cab was indistinguishable from the rest of those on the port of Villa San Giovanni. Black, another speckle against the shallow beach. The window rolled down when Feliciano and his guard approached, reveling a driver that was white as death, piercing eyes the color of strawberry. Feliciano shivered when he spoke, his words a broken Italian, dragged by a heavy German accent.

"Good to see you two made it safe," he said with a small nod. "You know, you can't make the trip a habit, _Signore. W_ ord travels quick. Take it from me and mourn her on another day or not at all, lest your funeral be next."

Feliciano frowned. Practically the same words his grandfather had shared with him before he left. "I see you've been talking to _Nonno_." Feliciano sighed. Gilbert just shot him a smirk and a wink. Rolling his eyes, Feliciano followed suit and got into the car.

It was dark as they climbed into the hidden town Feliciano had grown up in. The mountains made it perfectly secluded, surrounded by trees, fog, and fear. Feliciano chewed at the bed of his nail. Every time he came back to this place his stomach dropped. There was so much pain and suffering. One wouldn't be able to tell just by sight; no, if they only went by what they could _see_ they would be awestruck, peering at the picturesque isolation of the Aspermont mountain range. Trees littered the horizon, a distinct rush of water somewhere out of sight mixing with the smell of November rain. It was breathtaking.

Until innocent blood painted the pavement. But how innocent can someone really be when they refuse to pay the mafia fifty thousand euros every major holiday? They had it coming, no?

Feliciano swallowed the thought. He was almost home, no need to start crying again.

They pulled in to the drive of the Vargas villa. In Sicily there was no fancy mansion to stay in, only flats crowded in dangerous tunnels of 'terfs.' It would be nice, Feliciano decided, to be able to open his door without bracing his Colt. Still, he hovered a hand over his gun as he stepped out of the car, it wouldn't be easy breaking the habit. Especially since he didn't have the comfort of his brother or his grandfather here.

Lights could be seen from inside the house, illuminating the darkened streets that surrounded them.

"Gotta warn you," Beilschmidt spoke from behind the auburn-haired Italian, "I have a guest over."

Feeling this a great injustice, or perhaps just tired of being stuck in his head, Feliciano turned angrily. "When you received the honor to watch over the estate and the wellbeing of our town, you did not receive the power to do whatever may possess you at any point in time, _German_." His words were bitter on his tongue. Something sat in his chest, sizzling down to his stomach. Gilbert flinched back. "Do not step out of line or else I will see to it that you are replaced." It was an empty threat. Both of them knew it. Still, Gilbert put on a face of respect again, opening his mouth to apologize or make up some excuse.

Instead, a new voice joined the conversation. "I apologize greatly for my brother," came the response from behind Feliciano.

He hadn't heard the door open, but when he turned around he was face to face-well, face to _chest_ -with a tall, intimidating figure. The blond stood straight, professional. In place where the other Beilschmidt was pale, this one was tanned, and he looked to take great lengths to wear simple attire-nothing to the luxury of an extortionist. Not only that, but his Italian was flawless. Much better than his brother's. Perfect, though, Feliciano added as an after-thought, it was learned to be perfect—not felt. There was no melody behind it. "I—" Feliciano cleared his throat. "Brother? I see no resemblance."

"Most don't," came the rigid reply. This new German kept eye contact as if he'd be euthanized if he didn't. The blue stare commanded respect but was not cold.

Feliciano's anger had all dried up. Dissolving in his stomach and leaving him feeling sick. Turning to the albino he huffed and nodded. "Sorry for my outburst."

The albino didn't look hurt at all. The respect on his face melted away again as he hissed out a laugh. "You're stressed, I get it! Now come in. My brother promised to cook tonight. Made enough?" Gilbert pushed passed the tower with a playful shove. The other just nodded and turned to enter behind him.

Curious. If Feliciano wanted something home cooked he had to make it himself. Stepping into the warmth of the familiar walls, a new scent filled the Italian: first with hunger, then with the wonderment of such a foreign smell. "What have you made?" Feliciano asked the blond as they walked further into the villa. He held his hands behind his back and skipped to keep up with the German's long strides.

"Brats accompanied by russet potatoes scalloped and set in a white garlic sauce."

Feliciano noted that the man had no range of emotion. He carried a line across his feature that seemed to never smile. His eyes were stuck in front of him, and he carried himself like a trained soldier. Feliciano almost felt that he had gained another body guard. The other hovered, weary of the stranger. "Brats?" Feliciano asked brightly, lifting his features. "Is that not Russian? I cannot believe you to be feeding me my relations." It was a hollow joke, barring on bad. but, still, Feliciano giggled at it.

"A type of sausage, _Signore_ ," his actual guard responded.

"Ah yes, how interesting! Well I am quite excited to try it. Tell me, what is your name?"

"Beilschmidt."

"I know that much," Feliciano laughed, "but seeing as I employ your brother, and it would be quite confusing to refer to both of you by the same title, perhaps a first name is in order?" The blond finally took his gaze away from in front of him and glanced down at the Italian. Feliciano took this opportunity to send the man a flirtatious smile.

He looked away quickly. "Ludwig." Came a hesitant response. "Ludwig Beilschmidt."

"It's a joy to meet you! My name is Feliciano Vargas!"

" _Ja_ , I know. Your reputation proceeds you."

Feliciano's smile faltered. "What do you mean," he demanded. "I don't have a reputation."

Ludwig didn't respond. He dished out the food and they ate. Feliciano frowned down at his place. Reputation? Just because he shared ancestry with the mafia shouldn't mean that he was roped into the same boat as the rest of them. He ran shop! He didn't kill people, or blackmail them, or demand from them their money. He sold legal goods—except in the summer when he sold oranges, but those weren't hurting anyone!

Still, he was at fault for never speaking up against them. Feliciano could feel the tears beginning to brim. He stared into the creamy potatoes, focusing, praying they wouldn't spill. His mother had run away from home when she was young. She wanted nothing to do with the mafia. Only when Grandpa Roma assassinated her lover—leaving her a single mother of two, three if the stress hadn't caused a miscarriage—was she forced to return. For what? To be killed thirteen years later. Treated like paper to pass a message along. "This is our terf."

Grandpa owned the whole of Calabria now. Everything that went on here was officially under his control. Drug trafficking, kidnapping, corrupting politics, 'protecting' businesses and families for a small fee, taking out those who didn't pay. It was malarkey. All for a pretty penny they were far from needing.

"Feli, I promise it's better than it looks," Gilbert said softly from beside him.

Feliciano pressed the cuff of his sleeve to his eye. "What—oh yes, I was just, marveling at how wonderful it in fact looked! _Grazie_ , Ludwig."

Feliciano quickly bid goodnight. His rooms were exactly as he left them the year prior. The candle he had lit and forgotten to put out was a nub on the dresser, wax overflowing the dish and bleeding onto the wood, dusty. His sheets were cold and stiff. Feliciano sat upon them and stared at his hands.

"Would you be disappointed in me, _madre_?" His lips asked, voice caught dangerously in his throat. "I've tried to be good for you. You always told us to stay strong; _never sell yourself for any price_ , you said. Our souls are too precious to give up. He—He would be disappointed us if we wasted his sacrifice just to throw it away." He chocked out a sob, covering his mouth, giving no mind to the next set of tears.

He had tried his hardest to stay faithful. A time or two he had helped Lovino out of a rut. Gone to be a get away driver, to speak on behalf of the Vargas name to a young man or woman looking to earn big quick as a runner or distraction or whatever they needed at the time! Did that bind him to hellfire?

He lay down his head. Curling his knees into his chest and hugging them tightly he stay, awaiting the judgement he whispered into his knees.

"Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed by thy name; thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give me judgement for my sins, forgive me for my trespasses, as I forgive those who trespass against me and lead me not into temptation, but deliver me from evil. Glory be to the Father , and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit; allow my soul to be sorrowful even unto death." He murmuered a final "Amen." Into his leg. He allowed himself then silence. He should say more, speak his heart to the Lord, to his mother, but he had cried too much today. He was tired.

Lovino was right. He really was a cry baby. What nineteen-year-old cried so much in one day? Even the anniversary of their mother's passing? He was unstable.

Grandpa told him he was just sensitive. Their mother cried a lot too, she was sensitive, but she also took medication for depression and anxiety. Was he depressed? No, he didn't think so. He was anxious, but no one in his line of work wasn't.

But not everyone's brother brings them assortments of pills.

 _"Take these."_ Lovino had demanded.

So, Feliciano did. He cried less, some days he wouldn't cry at all, but he also lost all aspiration. No longer did he want to smile at pretty woman; no longer did his heart swoon when the most heartbreaking of ballets played on the radio; no longer did he wish to get out of bed. He had flushed the pills without telling Lovino. For a long while he attempted to hide it. He made sure not to cry around Lovino, even went so far as to act loopy, but his brother saw through his charade. Yelled at him for days. Tried to force him into it, hid the medication into Feliciano's food.

In the end Feliciano won out. Lovino, a bad sport as always, punished him through silence. For three months Lovino had refused to utter anything to his brother. No _good morning_ s or _good night_ s or prayers at the table. The only time Feliciano would hear his brother speak would be to other people. It broke his heart. He even thought about going back to the pills. Begging Lovino to speak to him, falling to his knees with a new assortment of tears—

" _Per favore, fratello. I can take this no longer! You are the only friend I have. Mio fratello, my heart cannot see you without breaking. Please, Lovino! Speak to me; tell me about your day, the book dog-eared on your bedside—what is the plot? Please…please."_

It would still take Lovino a month to say anything after that. Feliciano was so overjoyed to hear his name on his brother's tongue. Even if the first words weren't an apology—Lovino never apologized, for anything to anyone—and were probably forced out by their grandfather, Feliciano would take it.

The moon was still up when Feliciano left. He was supposed to awake his guard to escort him, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. This was a private matter.

His mother's grave was alone, in a place where the mountains whispered, persuading him deeper as evasive fog covered his feet, and where birds wouldn't peep and coyotes and wolfs feared to venture. There stood a statue of Mary. Golden in her glory, both hands outstretched as her chin lifted upward, she prayed to Him. The grave was unmarked. Anyone who stumbled upon it may not even recognize it as a grave.

Felicano dropped to his knees and bowed his head. " _Vive Marie_ ," he whispered, placing the bouquet of roses he had brought with him at the statues feet. The roses were white, as they were every year; to indicate his mother's soul in heaven. He dropped his head to pray. Lips moved against steeple fingers. His eyes were dry.

Here he felt safe. He could relinquish the idea of himself, giving away all but Him and his mother. After a while he just sat in silence. There, in the silence of the dawning morning as the fog evaporated; there, the cool autumn winds pushing against his figure, trying to topple him at times; he stayed strong.

Hours passed. It wasn't until the moon was back that Feliciano finally left. His cheeks were wet, but his heart was light. " _Ti amo, madre_. Wait for me, _per favore_."

The streets had very few people upon them. Motorbikes with helmeted riders gave him no mind, a group of children loudly ran across the street as an older teen yelled profanities at them, demanding they get back inside. Other than that, there was nothing. Just the still life of a mountain village.

Until he opened the door to his villa.

Screams erupted. Broken Italian followed by cries and circling questions. A crash. Feliciano backed against the door, half a mind to open it and leave.

"Fourteen bullets for fourteen men!" Gilbert screamed. Suddenly, he appeared in the main hall, thrusting a man forward by his neck.

"Please, please don't!" The man cried. "My children—"

"Shut up." Gilbert demanded. Feliciano was pushed aside as Gilbert left.

Feliciano's heart dropped. Black hood and height-altering boots. A public execution. Feliciano put his own hood up and ran after them. "Gilbert, please don't do this!"

"He testified against us and got fourteen of our men sentenced." Gilbert growled back.

"Then triple the amount he is paying us. Banish him! Oh, please, please, don't kill him."

"Go back to the house, _Veneziano_." Feliciano's code name rang thick in the air. The man going to be executed let out a horrified gasp.

" _Fallo velocemente, per favore_." He begged of Gilbert.

 _Make it quick, please._ Feliciano fell back. _Make it quick_? Where did his desire to live go? They walked until they were in front of the cameras of the shops. The first gunshot brought him back to his senses.

Feliciano watched as the man fell to the ground. His knee had been shot. He screamed.

The other knee, both shoulders, thighs, seven misplaced—none fired to kill. Then, Gilbert stepped forward and pressed the barrel of his gun to the man's head.

A scream tore out of Feliciano's throat when the final shot rang out. Snot and tears mixed upon his face, his body trembled. Another death. Another message. Another soul used for nothing!

Feliciano fell where he was. "No! Why! Why do You let this happen again and again and again! _Mio dio, mio dio_ you damn fool! You do this to us! It is your fault—stop this. I pray to thy, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, please, _please_ save the people." He rested his forehead against the pavement as he sobbed. "Take away the demons and the guns. Allow us peace to breath and live and harmonize. Please. Please."

A hand was placed onto his back. He did not look up, clenching his fists into the ground. The texture of the cement pressed scratchily against his skin.

" _Signore_ Vargas, come back to the villa." Ludwig.

Feliciano lifted his head from the ground. "How…How can you be so calm. Your brother—"

" _Ja_ , I know. And he will burn for his sins." Ludwig's expression was of stone. "Nothing can save him, and he knows it."

"In accepting his fate he worsens his crimes." Feliciano cried. "What is keeping him from—"

"Nothing."

Feliciano sobbed. Ludwig helped him up and to the villa. They were met at the door by Gilbert.

" _Ver dammit_ , Feliciano you could have blown my cover!"

Feliciano held on to Ludwig's arm. Gilbert stepped back when the young Italian shot him a glare. "No locals will talk. The cameras didn't see your face. Even if they did the police won't come after you. Damn you, Beilschmidt! Damn you!" Even as he screamed he openly cried. He let go of Ludwig and ran forward, slamming his fists against Gilbert's chest. "Damn you! Damn you! Damn you! _Damn you_!" The punches were hard. Yet, despite his wincing, Gilbert didn't move. Feliciano fell to his knees sobbing.

Gilbert fell with him. He laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "I know," he whispered, "and I'm sorry, Feli."

It was the following evening when Lovino showed up. Feliciano had been preparing to leave in the morning, he sat at the table surrounded by the things he was planning to take back with him, talking to Ludwig over a plate of freshly baked _sporcamuss_. Well, Ludwig didn't talk much, so Feliciano more talked at him.

The front door slammed open. "Where the _fuck_ is he?"

Feliciano stood so quickly he upset his stool. "Lovino!" He cried.

Lovino forced his way around the house, slamming things about. "Get the fuck out here, you albino bastard." He screamed.

Feliciano came out to the main hall just as Gilbert was descending the grand stairway. "Lovino? What is—" Gilbert was cut off when, taking three steps at a time, Lovino met the German with a powerful punch to the face. Another followed, and then another.

"Lovino!" Feliciano screamed, running to catch his brother's elbow in an attempt to stop him.

"Get the fuck off me!" Lovino howled, sending his elbow into Feliciano's stomach. Ludwig caught the teenager before he could slam against the floor.

" _Fretello_ ," Feliciano balled, "why are you-?"

Lovino was too busy blooding his knuckles upon pale skin. "What did I tell you, bastard!" He screamed between punches. "You know what you could have done. God damn it, _I should kill you_."

" _Fretello_!"

"Stay out of this, Feliciano." Lovino turned. "You don't have any idea what the fuck—" He cut himself off. Gilbert used this moment to spit. His whole face was cut and bloodied, the translucent skin beginning to bruise already. One eye was closed, the other internally bled.

"I'm sorry, _Signore_."

"Sorry doesn't cut it!" Feliciano hid his face in Ludwig's chest, flinching every time the dull thud of Lovino's rage hit.

* * *

They sat at the table. Gilbert and Lovino had disappeared. Gilbert to clean up, Lovino to his room. Feliciano stayed close to Ludwig, his hoovering presence making him feel safe. They talked quietly together. Ludwig would answer Feliciano's questions-mostly about the recent literature that the German had read- and Feliciano would find a way to connect it to a song. It was a nice distraction, singing to the German his favorite parts.

A soft click and the padding of feet indicated that Lovino had emerged. He came into the kitchen. He was calm, his chest rising and falling as if he was asleep. Even his head seemed to nod from side to side every now and again. "Feliciano, are you okay?"

Was he okay? Feliciano was shocked by the question. Rarely did Lovino asked his wellbeing.

" _Si_."

Lovino sat at the table. He tugged at his sleeve, looking not at Feliciano but past him. "Do you remember what happened? Last night."

Feliciano nodded. " _Si_ ," he repeated.

Lovino nodded slowly. "Everything?"

Feliciano took a long moment before he responded. " _Si_. I remember coming home from mother's grave, Gilbert shooting a man fourteen times in the middle of the plaza, and being unable to sleep."

"I assume you prayed for his soul." Mockery. But Lovino's jeering glare was nowhere to been seen.

"Of course I did! He did not deserve what happened. He only wanted to protect his family, _fretello_." Lovino stood slowly. He still didn't fully look at his brother. "Please, _fretello_ ," Feliciano pleaded, fear bubbling in his chest as he realized his brother was preparing to leave again, "before we go back to Sicily come to mother's grave with me. Pray with me there, please. Lovino, please."

Lovino shook his head as he walked out. "Won't do any good. We all are going to hell."

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE**

 _Okay, so we're starting out light. Isn't that fun? A quick warning to readers: I'm not personally religious, so I apologize if anything I write is wrong._

 **HISTORICAL NOTES**

Okay, this is going to be a long one.

 _Mafia is just the Italian term for organized crime. There is organized crime everywhere that could be defined as a mafia—but obviously isn't because it isn't Italian. This will be further explained in later chapters when Ivan and Kiku show up._

 _The timeline that I am basing this around is somewhere in the 1980s. This is the time when Sicily when through the Cosa Nostra, the most notorious Italian Mafia (in America, at least), age. It would be a little less than a decade when Cosa Nostra would rage war against the state of Italy and lose. At the same time that Italy was putting their efforts to rid themselves of the Sicilian mafias, a handful of miles away a Calabrian mafia was beginning to form. It is known as 'Ndrangheta. While Italy was busy, 'Ndrangheta got pretty damn powerful—to the point where they're still heavily established today. The practices mentioned in this fic are all based on what this mafia is doing/has been known to do._

 _There was a comment on Feliciano selling oranges earlier, and that stems from one of the 'Ndrangheta's practices. Seeing as Calabria is an impoverished town, they get a lot of money from the state. A good chunk of this money comes from growing oranges and sending them off to be sold internationally. 'Ndrangheta, using corrupt politicians, are able to receive the money from the oranges without sending any of them off. All it takes it a signature._

That's all I have for now!

Until we meet again,

 _Au revoir_


	3. The Mountain

Feliciano couldn't sleep again. His mind swirled with images of people crying, pleading for their livelihoods—or, worse yet, their lives. He wiped at his eyes again and again. His cheeks were raw.

Deciding he had enough of being alone, Feliciano crept down the hall to his brother's bedroom. Lovino would yell at him in the morning, but right now Feliciano didn't care. " _Fretello_?" he whispered. No response. Deciding it was safe the young Italian found his way across the room and into his brother's bed.

It was something that they had done since they were kids. When they were on the run from the mafia, when their father was murdered, when their mother hid them away in deserted houses until she was sure the coast was clear, the early days when Lovino would cry after coming home from working with Grandpa, when Feliciano was haunted like tonight. Feliciano was always yelled at, but he knew Lovino needed it as much as he did sometimes. Tonight, he decided, they both needed it.

Beside him Lovino was burning up. Feliciano coiled into the covers and squeezed his eyes shut. Lovino's breath hitched here and there, troubled by a sickness Feliciano wished he could fix. But he knew he couldn't. He could feel the ridges beneath his gentle touch, nauseating. His toes curled and stomach twisted. Nestling his head into his older brother's chest he repeated a silent prayer he knew would never be answered.

For the first time in a week, Feliciano fell into a dreamless sleep.

"Feliciano." The voice was stern, grumpy.

Feliciano shook his head, "No, five more minutes." He begged, tightening his grip around the body lying beside him.

"Get the fuck out of my bed. We are too old for this, damn it. Get a girlfriend or dog or something."

Feliciano hummed back a response. He had no intentions of getting up. He was still too tired.

" _Feliciano_." Lovino growled again.

" _Si_?"

"Get out."

Feliciano frowned, pulling away so that he could look up at his brother. The room was dark. Lovino sounded angry (very angry) but he looked tired. His coffee hair was a mess, stuck to one side of his face, and his cheeks radiated a sickly blush. His eyes drooped, furrowed in by petite brows that knitted together aggressively. Like he was about to kneel over in pain. "But—"

"Get the fuck out!" Lovino screamed, pushing him away. Feliciano fell off the edge of the bed. Tears sprung to his eyes.

"Lovino, I—I just—"

Lovino tossed the covers aside, put on his pants and a long sleeve shirt. " _Don't_. You're such a crybaby. Just get the fuck out _like I asked_."

Feliciano stood himself. "You—You don't have to be so mean, Lovino!" He cried. "Sometimes I need you—"

"You're just a nuisance! Get the hint? The only reason I'm here is because Roma sent me." He jabbed his thumb at Feliciano. "It's because of you that I had to waste so much time on transport. It's your fault that I'm here—that Beilschmidt won't be able to do his job properly for the next week at least, _fuck_! If you weren't such a coward! If you could just face reality, then _maybe_ everyone would be a little happier. **Get that through your god damn head!** "

Feliciano took a step back. His fists clenched and loosened. Not because he wanted to fight, but because he didn't want to prove his brother right by crying. He opened his mouth to speak. Nothing came out but a broken sob. No! He wouldn't cry. Clenching his fists so hard his shoulders shook he whispered what ran loop in his head. "Why are you always so mean?"

It was childish. Even he knew that. But, it was something that Feliciano couldn't understand; Lovino always lashed out like this when Feliciano tried to get close to him. Feliciano was always too stupid, too juvenile, too meaningless. They were brothers! What did any of that matter?

The tears fell before he could stop them. "Why are you so mean?" He repeated, a bit louder. "I never meant to _inconvenience_ you so much. Why…why—"

"Fuck off."

" _Mi dispiace_."

"I don't care."

Of course he didn't. Feliciano bowed his head; refusing to look up he slowly made his way to the door and left. Silence. The world outside the window was still dark. Why had Lovino woken up so early? Usually it was noon before he even began to stir.

Ignore the signs…again.

He fell to the floor sobbing. Lovino could be the biggest child! Why didn't he listen to reason? Why didn't he let anyone in? Why couldn't Feliciano be a better brother?

He stood and reopened Lovino's door. Blurry, dark lashes, dark room, abhorrence. He screamed, falling forward, bowing at his brother's feet. He wanted Lovino to understand. To understand that he wasn't as ignorant as everyone thought—how could he push him away? He begged and begged to be accepted.

Lovino just stared with blank eyes. He wouldn't be responding as himself anytime soon. Feliciano threw the needle across the room with so much force he liked to imagine it cracked. Screaming, sobbing, hugging the unresponsive—Lovino, Lovino; his older brother; his protection, Lovino, Lovino.

His words came together in short blows between sobs. "I'm sorry for leaving. I'm sorry for not being strong enough to work with you. I'm sorry I cry and am annoying. I'm sorry you hate me. I'm sorry, Lovino. I'm sorry. I—I hate myself. I can't—Lovino I'm so sorry for everything and everything and everything. I'm sorry I didn't try hard enough—or—or notice before it was too late. Please, Lovino, please, I'm—I'm sorry—please, please, please." He hugged his brother tightly, clinging as if it would restore something.

It didn't.

Hours passed, the sun rose, Feliciano woke up alone. It was the chill of wet bedsheets and November wind that roused him. He sat, shoving his palms into his eyes.

Walking to the kitchen he found Ludwig and Gilbert. Neither muttered a single word of the night prior.

The sight of Gilbert made Feliciano want to vomit. Out of pity and disgust. Neither eye opened fully, one not at all, and what wasn't scabbed was green and white and black. His nose would need to be set soon, else it would have to be broken again.

Was it really Feliciano's fault that Gilbert had been beaten so profoundly?

Better yet: did he deserve it?

" _Guten Morgen, Signore_ ," Ludwig greeted. He was cooking something upon the stove, a skillet breakfast from what Feliciano could see. "Breakfast is about ready if you wish to join us."

"Have you seen my brother?"

" _Nein_."

"He left earlier," Gilbert announced. He leaned back in his chair and scratched his head. "Dunno where he went, though."

"Ah—Grazie." Feliciano hesitated. "How—How are you feeling?"

It wasn't Feliciano's place to establish judgement. The lord will decide his fate.

Gilbert attempted a snarky grin (to which he must have found painful, for it quickly morphed into a grimace), "Just peachy. Your brother really should have gone out to be a boxer."

Feliciano allowed him an awkward chuckle.

"Actually," he continued, "I think he might be off to finish up a job. He should be back in a little while. Take a seat."

The meal Ludwig had prepared was wonderful. Skillet potatoes and eggs and some breakfast sausage Feliciano couldn't pronounce. He had also prepared toast and a brew of strong coffee. Feliciano ended up with more milk than actual coffee in his cup.

"Keep this up and I may have to bring you to Sicily with me," Feliciano teased, taking another bite. The mood had lightened a bit when Ludwig had set the table and Feliciano turned the conversation to him. The blond really wasn't a conversationalist, but he was too polite—or perhaps too obligated—to turn the Italian down. He answered everything in short phrases, yeses or nos, or, a few times already this morning, a break in his stony composure that Feliciano quickly took as compliment to a smile.

At the offer to taking Ludwig to Sicily, the bulking blond shifted with an uncomfortable cough.

Gilbert laughed. "Maybe a change of scenery would be good for ya, Luddy."

"Whatever is commanded of me." He finally added. Feliciano grinned at him. Maybe he was in for a new body guard. Why couldn't this one do?

"You can drop the soldier attitude."

At first, Feliciano had thought the comment was a joke. He chuckled. But the other two didn't. Silence; Feliciano hated silence like this. It was heavy. "How is your guys' grandpa?" Feliciano offered. " _Nonno_ can't stop talking my ear off about him!"

"He's somewhere in Germany." Gilbert answered. "He can't tell us his location—for obvious reasons—but once he needs our assistance he will send for it." Gilbert attempted another pained smile. "Luddy and I will finally be able to do a job together! When we were kids Ludwig always refused—school this or PT that. He was such an annoying kid."

"You finished school?" Feliciano asked, awestruck. Rarely did anyone do that these days. Who needed a degree when they were already being shuffled two thousand euros or more a week?

" _Ja_ , secondary school. I didn't have a chance to go into university, though."

Feliciano cleared his place at the table as he spoke. "That's truly amazing, Ludwig! To put in that effort, even though you knew that you didn't have to. Wow; just wow!"

There it was again. The silence. Feliciano turned back to company. Ludwig stared down at the left overs he had been throwing out, Gilbert at the ceiling.

"He was on track to study law." Gilbert said. "He wanted to become a prosecutor."

A prosecutor. No wonder he hadn't had the chance to continue his studies. "Oh. Well, still, amazing. The courts would have been lucky to have you."

"He would have been dead within a week." Gilbert chuckled darkly. "Fourteen bullets for fourteen men—he was a stranger. In the family its personal. I'm just glad he finally listened to reason."

Ludwig sobered and finished his chore before leaving. Feliciano watched him go, half a mind to go after him.

"You really should try to be more understanding."

"He was one step away from betraying us." Gilbert sighed. "There's no deeper meaning to that. Loyalty is the only true currency in our line of work, Feli. You know that."

"I also know that loyalty gets people killed." Feliciano bit back. "I know that a sir name gets you shot in the back. I know that keeping your mouth shut allows people-like you and _Nonno_ -to keep on doing whatever they'd like to do. The locals are silent not out of loyalty but fear—and, and sometimes those within the family are the same."

Gilbert squared himself. His bruised face grew angry, but his tone stayed level. "What are you implying, _Feli_?"

Feliciano bit his tongue. "Nothing." He continued after a pause. "Just that there could be a deeper meaning. If—If you bother to look."

* * *

Lovino got back late in the evening. An entourage of men Feliciano recalled working the shipping docks crowded him. They spoke in quick tongues. Something about another 'wardrobe' being found out. Lovino assured them that it wouldn't affect their profits, but one of the men mentioned an increase in security.

"Then we put more of our men on staff. We've gone through this before. I don't see why it's any different now."

"Our supplier has commented on not feeling safe."

"Because of the transaction risks," Lovino demanded harshly, "or due to recent threats made by the Camorra?"

The men fell silent. Lovino slammed his fist against the table. "Damn it! Win the favor of one of their fucking clans and the others are pushing back." Lovino cursed something under his breath, bringing a shaking hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Do we know _which_ branch of the Camorra is attacking us _this time_?"

"I—well we can't be positive, but from the information we've gathered it's the region run by Antonio Carriedo. We were told that a powerful gambling house in Naples was where the threats were coming from. It's a dead giveaway."

Lovino tapped his index finger across his forehead. Wrinkles that shouldn't be upon any twenty-three-year-old's features were etched like stone. "It is. Too much so, maybe."

"What action do we take from here?"

"I—I don't know. None for now. Keep Alvarez at ease for as long as possible. I'll figure something out."

Feliciano listened to his brother talk for a while longer before the men were sent away. If grandpa was here they would have stayed for a drink, something to eat, a good time. Lovino was never the hosting type.

* * *

" _Fretello_ ," Feliciano came to stand beside him in the study. A map lay sprawled across the table, different colors discerning different Camorra clans. Lovino hunched over it, his hands spread out on the table to keep him from falling over. In one hand he clutched a dart. Feliciano rested his hip on the wood. " _Fretello_ , we need to talk."

"Later." Lovino muttered, sticking the dart in the table just to pull it out and stick it back in. A nervous tick.

"I—I want to help this time." Feliciano whispered. "I want to help with whatever you're doing. Whatever clan is attacking, I can go with you this time, _Fretello_. I can help."

Lovino laughed. Mockingly, despondently. "Yeah, Feliciano, how? How are _you_ going to help?"

"I—How ever you need me to help, Lovino! Please, let me come with you."

"I don't even know if I'm going anywhere!" Lovino shouted, slamming the dart down. He slashed across the table, knocking over the lamp that would have illuminated a now ripped map. "I need some room to come up with a god fucking damned plan, but here I am being bothered once again!"

Feliciano stood his ground. He had been preparing himself mentally all day. "Then let me help you think of a plan! We pull the strategy _Nonno_ used when Sacra Corona Unita tried to play copycat. Scare them away. Get the police on our side, imprison the boss! Or—Or we could find a way to cut off their trades. Get into the casino, play from the inside. Lovino, _please_ , I can help!"

His breathing was heavy. Panting, now. He grasped the dart and tug with all his might until it relinquished itself from the table. He lifted it to his ear, as if he were planning to stab someone he refused to look at, before he finally loosened up. "Fine." Feliciano's heart soared. He had won! "But-: Lovino continued, finally looking Feliciano full in the face. "If at any point in time I tell you to leave—any fucking point, Feliciano—you fucking leave. Do we have a deal?"

Feliciano, still riding the high of his win, nodded his head. "Yes! _Yes! Grazie, Fretello_! I won't let you down! I won't!" Lovino gave him a look that said he expected the latter. Feliciano gave it no mind. "Come to dinner? Ludwig made something that smells really quite strange and I don't know if I can face it alone."

"No. I—I have to do something."

Feliciano pressed his luck. "Come on, Lovino! You've lost so much weight in the last year. You can't possibly tell me you're not hungry. You won't make it to Naples—much less defeat this Antonio guy—if you don't look after yourself!" He laughed cheerily. Please work. "Come to dinner and then we can come up with a plan. Maybe we'll even take a nap like we used to. Remember, Lovino? When Nonno would make us go over stupid briefings and we would sneak off to nap?"

Lovino groaned. "Why are you so stuck on when we were kids?"

"We—We can do it again. Eat, start planning, and then—then fall asleep before any work is really done. Lovino how does that sound?"

"Don't you dare start crying again, Feliciano. I'll come to fucking dinner, but you have to fucking promise to stop crying."

Feliciano sniffled, nodding aggressively. "De—Deal!"

For the first time in what felt like years Lovino shared a meal with him. He was agitated and ate next to nothing, but he was trying. That, Feliciano kept telling himself, was the first step to recovery. Feliciano even roped him into planning next, without giving him even a second to himself.

"We stake out the scene," Lovino went over. He ran his fingers through his hair for the millionth time, a messily taped map resting in his lap.

" _Si_ ," Feliciano responded sleepily. He rested his head on the other's shoulder, doing everything in his power to not fall asleep.

"If it's safe to move in, we try our hand at intimidation. Send in Rogoli and Cutolo, and if their efforts are in vain send in Morello. I'm sure Roma won't mind letting us borrow him for the time being." Feliciano nodded. "If it's not safe to move in was send Pantaleo in undercover." He groaned. "This could take fucking months!" Taking a moment to calm down, Lovino rubbed his eye. "If at any point we feel we're in danger we back off. Until Camorra unifies we have a chance at worming our way into their police force. If it comes down to that we use the police as distraction as we move in and corner Carriedo personally."

" _Si—Si—Oui_." Feliciano muttered, having long ago closed his eyes and now was drifting to the sound of his brother's voice.

"And then—" Lovino took a break to yawn, "—and then we finish the job. Ending depends on this Antonio Carriedo." He lowered his voice as he himself closed his eyes. "Hopefully it doesn't come down to something we can't fix."

Feliciano was asleep, drooling on Lovino's shoulder. Lovino almost allowed a small smile. It was times like this that Lovino felt silly for fearing the younger one as much as he did.

* * *

"Please can we take him!" Feliciano pleaded.

"No! You don't need a new fucking guard, Feliciano." Lovino yelled back.

"But the other one doesn't cook. I'm sure Nonno would like him back, anyway!"

Lovino grumbled. "Feliciano," he said slowly, talking to a child, "he sent Sanchez because he _trusts_ him. We don't even know this guy!"

'I doubt _Nonno_ would mind. He put the other one in charge of everything while he's off in Sicily! He trusts the family."

"No, Feliciano!"

Feliciano pouted. He didn't give up, though. While Lovino was getting ready to set out, Feliciano snuck over to the landline and pounded in the number.

" _Pronto_." Came a response moments later.

" _Buongiorno_!" Feliciano cooed. "Is _Nonno_ there?"

A long pause. " _Si_?" Came a tired response.

" _Buongiorno, Nonno_!"

"Feliciano!" A shuffling. "How are you? Did Lovino make it alright? He ran off after Sanchez called in the report."

" _Si_ , he's made it. We're actually off to Naples, I'm sure Lovino is preparing his speech to you right now. Oh! But that's not what I'm calling about. The Beilischmidts."

"Mmm, _si_?"

"Well, Lovino and I had the pleasure to meet Gilbert's younger brother, and I was wondering if I could use him as my new body guard. I'm sure you'd love to have Sanchez back on call."

"What's the meaning for the change?"

"Well, you see—Sanchez doesn't cook, _Nonno_."

A pause before the line erupted with laughter. "Oh, Feliciano, a true Italian. If that's what you want. But, do be careful. The last I saw of Ludwig he was going off to serve in the German military. He might be a bit stern."

Feliciano grinned brightly. " _Grazie_!" He shouted. "One second—Lovino! Lovino! Come here!"

"What is it, stupido?"

" _Nonno_ said I could bring him!"

"What! Give me the fucking phone you little—"

" _Lovino_."

"Roma—er— _Nonno_."

"What is this about you going to Naples?"

Feliciano skipped to the guest bedroom on the top floor. It was still dead early in the morning, their train going to be leaving soon, so Feliciano doubted the blond would be awake. However, upon opening the door, he found the German strapping on his boot.

" _Buongiorno_ , Ludwig! I'm glad to see you're up! We're heading out soon and _Nonno_ said that you can be my new body guard! Pack what you must, and tell Beil—Gilbert you'll be heading out if you want to." Feliciano grinned at him. However, Ludwig met with a blank face.

"When was this decided?"

"Just a minute ago." His smile faltered. "You do want to go, don't you?"

Ludwig cleared his throat instead of responding. Finally, as Feliciano opened his mouth to tack something more on, he said "whatever I'm commanded to do."

Feliciano frowned fully at this; he didn't argue. Tell him that if he didn't want to go he didn't have to. Maybe it was because Ludwig stepped past him and into the hall before he could think of something more to say, or maybe it was because he feared Lovino slipping away again and he being left totally alone. Whatever it was placed Ludwig beside him as Sanchez drove them to the train station.

" _Grazie_!" Feliciano yelled.

Sanchez huffed, cigarette smoke wafting out of the car. "Yeah, yeah. You know, if you would have asked me to cook I woulda."

Feliciano laughed. "It's alright! _Nonno_ was missing you more than ever! Safe travels." With another huff Sanchez peeled away.

Lovino shoved a ticket into Feliciano's waving hand. "Come on, bastard. We're going to miss our train."

"Oh— _Si_!"

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE**

 _Hard beginnings and light endings; fun, huh?_

 **HISTORICAL NOTES**

Here we go again…

 _Let's start with the heroin epidemic. Italy has been hit, and hit hard, multiple times by heroin. Thanks to organized crime using it to make a dime and heroin's VERY addictive nature it's no surprise that Italy was hit so hard. Even today they're suffering another resurfacing._

 _In August of 1989 the New York Times published an article on the 1980s epidemic. "The rapid rise of heroin use in Italy has left the country with the largest number of drug-related deaths in Western Europe. In 1988, the Government said, 809 people died from heroin overdoses, almost three times the number in 1986. Health officials say that with people widely sharing needles, more than half the country's estimated 300,000 heroin users have been infected with AIDS." In the same article they interview a few people who use heroin as a 'social drug,' shooting up in pizzareas and cafes._

 _However, heroin is NOT a social drug. Unlike some other drugs (don't do drugs kids) heroin is a powerful opiate that leads to dependency after very few uses. Some are hooked after one, though everyone is affected differently. The thing with heroin is that, according to The Recovery Village, it floods your mind with dopamine, limiting receptor's ability to gather and restore the brain's chemical balance post-fix. The high is persistent but short lived, so as the user craves another hit of dopamine their own dopamine receptors begin to die off, making another hit the only way an addict can feel pleasure after long enough. Many addicts are left with years of depression after quitting the drug._

 _The 'wardrobe' refers to the 'Ndrangheta's habit of smuggling huge metal chests filled with cocaine into the country, disguising it as loads of bananas or cocoa or other imported goods. Thousands of kilos of the stuff has been found out, but it hasn't stopped them yet!_

 _The Camorra is an interesting on to set in. Though it is unified under one name, individual Camorra clans act independently of each other and are prone to feud amongst themselves. No one is positive when they were established, but there did seem to be a strong Spanish influence in the 17th century. In the 1970s and 80s there was an attempt to unify all the Camorra families in the manner of the Sicilian Mafia, but this effort failed. Having Antonio run a casino is just a nod at the origin of the Camorra name. ( "Capo" meaning boss and the Neapolitan stree fame, the "morra" in which two persons wave their hands simultaneously, while a crowd of surrounding gamblers guess the totally number of fingers exposed by the principal players.)_

 _'Alvarez' is the fan name for Columbia (in South America, not North). She is inserted as the Vargases supplier because Columbia is big in the cocaine trade._

 _Sacra Corona Unita is a mafia-type organization that was founded in 1981. They were heavily inspired by the 'Ndrangheta—hence Feliciano commenting on them being 'copycats'—and its rumored that the leader of the Sacra Corona Unita was officially initiated for the 'Ndrangheta in Trani jail, 1983._

Until we meet again,

Auf Wiedersehen


	4. Satellite

A year. Feliciano let it slip his mind constantly; how could he hold on to some silly hope of escape when _Nonno_ had found a way to see to it that Feliciano was never right? Too thin. Too afraid. Too unstable. Of course, these were never real concerns. The Italian government had taken much thinner, more reluctant, less sane citizens under their wing than he.

By law he should be serving. He should have been drafted when he turned eighteen, should be employed in some government job-if not physically enduring the actual pains of military training and postage. Yet, he wasn't. No, _Nonno_ wasn't going to allow one of his grandsons to be put in such a dangerous position. Not with the way Sicily was turning out.

Feliciano played with the cuff of his jacket. The soft, black fabric only acted as a distraction as he mentally counted the seconds in his head. Lovino had been gone for too long. The train rumbled rythmically beneath him, Ludwig stared out the car window. His stature wouldn't reveal it, but Felicaino knew he was one edge. A hidden weapon, a watchful eye, nervous twitch of the neck every time someone walked past. Still, he managed to look at ease. Despite the line of thin lips and rigid posture, his shoulder rested against his seat and his legs were crossed. Even his eyes, lit by an early morning sun, held no tension.

Was this what the military taught people, or organized crime?

"How—How was it?" Feliciano asked. Five minutes. Five minutes one. "Ludwig? How was it? The military?"

Ludwig, pretending to just realize that he was the one being inveigled (Feliciano knew he had caught on the first time; he watched) turned his attention to the small Italian. "What do you mean?"

"You were drafted, no?"

" _Ja_."

"How was it? Oh, don't turn away from me. Ludwig, please?"

Ludwig's line had turned into a frown. Subtle. He stared out the window again. "Beilschmidt."

"What?"

"I am under your employment now. My brother is no longer here to muddle. Beilschmidt."

Five minutes twenty-nine. "Well then, _Beilschmidt_ ," Feliciano half snapped, half pleaded, "how was liberation?"

Thirty one. Two. Three. "It was the best six months of my life." He finally muttered.

"Why did you come back?"

"It was not my choice. _Folkert_ made sure it wasn't."

So, his grandfather had thwarted his plans as well. Feliciano felt a new sympathy for the German that refused to look at him. Fifty six. Seven. Eight. "Would you go back if you had the opportunity." He tried to ask. He thought he had asked. But upon six nineteen he realized that his voice hadn't sounded yet. He tried again. Still, nothing. He could not speak.

He had to find another way to speak to the German. On behalf of his boredom, his rapport, his desire for friendship. He thought back to their previous conversations, around a table as the small Italian shook, death fresh on his brain. Ludwig had not been in Italy for long and had not known of many Italian songs. Feliciano had taken the liberty to teach him a few as the German taught him about his own country's literature.

So, Feliciano sang. If his friendship was naught at least he would get his own passion from the mix.

 _La fisarmonica_ **(The accordion)**

 _Stasera suona per te_ **(Tonight it plays for you)**

 _Per ricordarti un amore_ **(To remind you about a love)**

 _Uno di tanti anni fa_ **(The one from many years ago)**

 _La fisarmonica_ **(The accordion)**

The words didn't come out, however. No home of the sweet tune, no roll of melodic tongue Feliciano was sure he demonstrated. Stuck. Ludwig still turned. Feliciano stared. He stared. Why wasn't it working?

 _Ma tu non piangere_ **(But don't you cry)**

 _Non si cancella cos?_ **(It can't be erased like that)**

 _Torna pi? Grande che mai_ **(It comes back bigger than ever)**

 _Il desiderido di te_ **(The desire for you)**

 _Quando vivevi felice con me_ **(When you were living happy with me)**

Where had the deep thrum of the train gone. His seconds, minutes now, was it longer? Where had they gone. He stared foreword. Ludwig stood callous to his words, his tunes. The song was sweet, simple. It played somewhere on the raido, its saccharine melody moving a couple into a slow dance. A slow, full, sweet swoon as she stared into his gaze and he promised her his heart and soul and name. Whenever she could take it. It would be hers. Somewhere.

 _Se chiudo gli occhi_ **(When I close my eyes)**

 _Vedo il tuo viso_ **(I see your face)**

 _Rivedo il tuo sorriso_ **(I see your smile again)**

 _Ma le mani lontane_ **(But distant hands)**

 _Non si stringono pi ?_ **(Won't shake each other anymore)**

No people stirred. He stared. Stared. Wished to be stared back at.

 _La fisarmonica_ **(The accordion)**

Stared. Wished. Hoped. Where was his count! How long?

 _Stasera suona per noi_ **(Tonight it plays for us)**

But there was no accordion playing for him. None! No face but that in front of him, staring away. Away.

Where was the count.

 _"Feliciano!"_ It screamed again and again. Brown. Coffee. Swimming.

Lovino's face appeared in from of his. Lovino was staring, shaking, shaking him, the train trotted. " _Fre-Fretello_?" He coughed, cutting off his song.

Lovino sunk away, panting. "Feliciano." He muttered. Then again, he echoed himself. He ran his fingers through his toffee hair, heavy. "Feliciano," he finally reacted, lifting his gaze from the floor, "stop singing that damned song. And stop fucking crying. We had a deal." Anger.

"Oh-Oh! Sorry, _fretello_!"

He didn't look good. His suit jacket was ruffled, the light gray stripes no longer straight over his arms and core. He looked lost in thought, too. Feliciano hated himself for not making him stay. Why had he taken his brother's excuse that he had to go to the restroom!

Ludwig must have noticed, too, because he looked alarmed. He sat straighter (somehow, that was possible), and no longer were his eyes softened by the comfort of the train. He also glanced over at Feliciano more and more. If his brother wasn't there, Feliciano would have nodded to him. He would have asked what he should do considering this addiction. Surely Ludwig would offer his assistance.

He would ask next time they were alone. Of course, that would only be effective if Ludwig actually spoke to him.

* * *

He was awoken by his brother when they reached their stop. "Get up, _idiota_." Lovino demanded, grabbing his black valise from it's spot above their head. Feliciano rubbed his eyes, stretching his legs with a load groan. "Ah, _fretello_ , we really should go on until the next stop. Less… of a walk."

Lovino boxed the boy's ear. With a yelp Feliciano jumped up. "What was that for!" He cried, vexed just as much as he was hurt.

"Up! Roma sent a car to take us to the hotel."

Grumbling, Feliciano followed orders. Ludwig hovered behind the youngest Italian. Still, coming off the train, Feliciano made his own weapon a conscious option.

The city they stepped into was beautiful. Stone of vivid colors whispered off newly paved streets, people in equally colorful attire walked the streets, talking, laughing, looking about. A great humidity stay in the air, despite the time of year, and Feliciano could feel his heart being pulled like a wave to the nearby beach. Certainly, in this unfounded warmth, a beautiful woman would be trailing the waters.

"Lovino, can we please go and visit the beaches?" Feliciano pleaded as they walked. A yellow cab scuttled past as the three of them cross the road.

"Feliciano, when I agreed for you to come it was not so that you could go on vacation." Lovino snapped. "Stop being childish. We have a fucking job to do."

" _Signore Vargas_ ," Ludwig hissed. "I am not sure if speaking about the matter so publicly, in enemy territory, is the best idea. Humor him. His folly may do more good than harm."

Lovino growled a sharp "Shut up," but nevertheless followed the German's good sense. Feliciano stayed quiet, wounded by his brother's comment—followed by Ludwig's, even if the blond meant no ill will towards him. They came upon the car that was to be taking them to the hotel. Black, tinted windows, as always.

" _Gattaia_ ," the driver whispered as Lovino made his way to the driver's window.

Feliciano chuckled to himself—and, it seems, to Ludwig, as in the next moment he was whispering to him. " _Nonno_ always chooses the funniest code words. Catnip—no one would think of that!"

Still Ludwig was stoic in his nature and didn't even crack a smile. He had, however, leaned in to hear what Feliciano was saying. The Italian would take the win where ever he could.

Lovino huffed at the driver and motioned for the other two to follow them into the car. There was another man in the back seat. Lovino took shotgun while Ludwig and Feliciano were crowded into the back. The car was warm, the ghostly scent of cigarettes filled the cab, the windows were dark. There was no conversation.

Feliciano was nervous. He didn't know why. Perhaps it was the strange way the man beside him kept looking over at Ludwig. Perhaps it was the gentle hum of the driver, his brother's scowl too concentrated on something else to be appropriately in the present. Whatever it was sent him to back into Ludwig. His gun lay in a hidden pocket over his breast. Fiddling with the silver cross around his neck put him less than a second away from it.

"Lovino and Feliciano Vargas." The sudden speech sent Feliciano's hand into his jacket. He grasped the handle of his Colt. "Oh, Feliciano," the driver hummed, "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

The barrel of a gun now rested against Feliciano's head. Ludwig, having been tense since Feliciano had backed into him, attempted a subtle gesture for one of his own weapons. It didn't work. The driver having a gun on Lovino, the strange backseat straggler with one on Feliciano, Ludwig could do nothing without risking one or both Vargas's lives.

Lovino growled. "The fuck is this?" He demanded.

"We've been keeping a close eye on you two ever since you returned to Calabria." The driver announced. "We really didn't think you'd be so hasty, but once again we're delightfully surprised by you."

"What do you want?" Ludwig demanded.

"To send a message," the straggler responded.

"We have been crossed for the last time by the Vargas name. And now, planning to move your way into our casinos and our _polizia_?"

"How do you know about that!" Lovino demanded. The driver waved his gun tauntingly. Lovino simmered down.

"You really don't believe that phone lines are safe to discuss plans over, do you?" He laughed. "So naïve!"

Feliciano shrunk further away, closing his eyes so tight he could see stars. He could feel the tears beginning. "Where are you taking us?" He cried.

"What does it matter?" Came the resoponse. Feliciano didn't know which one it was. All he knew was his pulse, Ludwig's pulse, Lovino's vying presence so far away that Feliciano knew he had no protection. His gun sat with his heart, with his cross. Too far. He prayed then. The stars slipped away with his tears into darkness as he prayed.

 _Father, son, and holy ghost. Please protect my brother and my friend. Please keep them from harm, as they are young and need another chance for Your redemption. Open Your grace and lift their souls should You decide our fates tonight. I pray to thy out of selflessness for those closest to me. Please, help, please…_

"…help." He mouthed. More tears. He was shaking. Ludwig set his hand against the small of Feliciano's back. Lovino said something.

"Please don't do this!" Lovino's ego kept _please_ out of his vocabulary. The three of them fell into hell. "You don't know what you're doing! _Please_!" He cried.

Dark car windows. Barrel enfolded in his hair. The cross on his gun on his heart in his chest.

A gun shot.

When Feliciano opened his eyes, Lovino stood with his gun outstretched. They were no longer in the car. At some point in time they had moved away from the immediate city and found their way to a secluded area on a shallow beach. Naples' waters lapped at the body.

"Lovino!" Feliciano screamed. He climbed to his knees—when had he fallen to the ground?—and made towards his brother. When Feliciano swatted the gun away from him his heart sank when he processed it was hot. Lovino had shot a man.

Feliciano took a single glance at the body. The sight terrified him to no avail. "What—How many times did you shoot him!" He demanded. Anger, disbelief, pure terror.

Lovino fell away from his brother. His lips trembled, his eyes reeled, but his composure was practiced. His voice didn't waver. "Emptied the clip."

Into the man's face. Hollowed, squished, blown into the graveled beach. Red spray. His bones had splintered, his brain matter had mixed with the muscles and the veins and the rocks to become unrecognizable. No sense play in the strings of what had been a human being. Soul. The waves licked up the scene greedily. Red bubbled to orange as the pollution diluted.

Feliciano wept into his cross, holding the steel to quaking lips. Back and forth he rocked. "Please, please, no, please, please," he repeated. His body quailed at his brother's actions. His _brother_! How! Why!

No one came to comfort the sobbing teen.

"Come—come on Feliciano." Lovino settled a hand against Feliciano's shoulder. Timid. "We have to go."

Feliciano's head ached. His tears had dried. Holding onto his brother's arm he allowed himself to be moved. Ludwig stay a distance away from them. Lovino had tied a stone to the body and pushed it fully into the water and was practically soaked. He shook with the chills of a setting November sun.

"He woke up." Ludwig said as the two made their way around the large piece of concrete that had secluded their corner of the beach from the rest of the world. He had his arms crossed over his chest and he kept his stare on Lovino.

"Take him," Lovino huffed, passing over the young Italian. Feliciano refused to look up from the ground, refused to let go of his cross. He held it so tight that the dull metal bit into his palm. Ludwig agreed with a breath of hesitation. Lovino started to stomp of being turning around. "Feliciano, give me your gun."

Feliciano finally met his brother's figure. "What! Why?"

"Because, _bastardo_ , I used all of my ammo."

"I—But Lovino!"

Lovino wasn't taking no for an answer. Feliciano gave in and handed his weapon over.

"Tell your boss not to fuck with us." Lovino screamed, shoving Feliciano's gun into his face.

The driver groaned. He rubbed the back of his head where Ludwig had hit him. He still hang over the steering wheel where he had passed out. "You do know the dangers of knocking people out like that, don't you?" He muttered with a wince. "I could have a serious concussion!"

"You're lucking that's all you got, fuck face. You're only alive to pass on a message."

"And what message is that?"

Lovino growled. "What the fuck did I just tell you it was? Tell. Your. Boss. To. Not. Fuck. With. Us!"

The man grinned up at Lovino, his emrald eyes grinning along with him. "Feliciano, you surely have grown up since the last time we met. But I don't understand, Lovino, why did you take _his_ gun?"

A new furry fondled Lovino's stature. He shook and his voice gained volume. Even his pitch seemed to spike. "Because, bastard, I used up all my ammunition to kill that fucktard of a partner of yours!"

The driver's grin broadened. "Feliciano—"

Lovino cut him off with the pistol, sending its butt into the driver's skull.

"Fuck-!"

"Do not talk to him. Do not talk at _fucking all_. You are alive to send a message. _Shut the fuck up_. _Just shut up! Shut up!_ " Lovino held the Colt with both hands. His breaths were labored. So often these days they were. " _You fucking shut up, bastard._ "

Ludwig carried Feliciano forward, grabbing the back of Lovino's jacket when it looked that the brunette was about to topple forward. "Let's go." Ludwig whispered gently. Lovino nodded, unsteady.

Green eyes followed them. Curious. Mischievous. Petrified.

They made it to the hotel before the sun had completely disappeared. They had taken the risk of hailing a cab when both Feliciano and Lovino became dead weight. Worse yet, Ludwig realized that they had left their suitcases in the other car, too distracted at the time to consider them, and now showed up without anything but what they had on their persons. Their passports, clothing, money, it was all gone.

Feliciano and Lovino didn't care. The pair exhausted. Feliciano climbed into one of the beds, Lovino into the other. Ludwig left to see if there had been another room checked in for them, and when he returned—a bit disturbed that there hadn't been—Feliciano had found his way to his brother's side. Ludwig, glad he wouldn't have to sleep on the floor, stripped what little of his everyday attire he could without being inappropriate and settled down. His gun stay cocked. His mind stay awake.

It's not like he would be able to sleep; a heartless murderer in the bed beside him.

Their belongings were outside their door when Lovino opened it. "What the fuck?" He demanded. First of Ludwig, then of the ghost in the hallway. No response.

"They're toying with us." Ludwig sighed, rubbing his temples.

"Maybe they're just trying to be nice?" Feliciano offered. "Calling a truce."

"There are no truces in this game, Feliciano." Lovino bit back. He tossed the inners of each bag onto the floor or a bed, searching thoroughly for any sort of bug or bomb or poison. "Fuck, what did they hide! What is their angle, damn it!"

"We're not safe here." Ludwig said. "They know where we're staying. At any time they can attack. We have to move."

"Ah-hah!" Lovino cried. "That's it! They're wanting us to move. The second we leave we're open game to them! _This is their terf_!" Lovino calmed down, realizing the implications that he had just made. "We can't phone a friend, they have them tapped. We can't step out of the hotel without risking being jumped."

"Checkmate." Ludwig groaned.

"No, there's got to be someway that we can do _something_." Feliciano insisted. "Lovino, what about all those plans you came up with? Rogoli and Cutolo and Morello. We can still use them!"

"How do you suppose that we'll get a hold of them without putting our necks out on the line?" Lovino asked with a roll of his eyes.

"We'll—I don't know. There has to be something we can do. Sneak out in the middle of the night?"

"You really are an idiot."

"Name calling is not getting us anywhere, Lovino," Ludwig sighed.

"Well neither is his stupidity!"

Feliciano sniffed. Lovino screamed at him not to fucking cry. Ludwig tried to stop a full on fight when Feliciano yelled back and Lovino moved to punch him. Felicaino flinched away and Ludwig stopped Lovino's hand.

"Don't," he threatened.

"You're just as much my guard as you are his, German," Lovino barked.

"My job is to protect you from others, it should not be dealing with infighting. Settle down. Feliciano is right—in some sense, we have to be free to leave.:

Lovino pulled his hand away from him. He paced the floor. His brow furrowed, his fists hit his thigh with every stride. "Fuck, this is Sicily all over again," he cursed.

Feliciano sat down. The beginning days in Sicily had not been easy. Nosa Dorma didn't like the sound of some mountain mafia joining their ranks. Too many close calls.

But here they weren't trying to join anything. They were trying to secure their trade through intimidation. And instead of starting off with the surprise attack they had hoped they would have, they're cooped up in a hotel room.

And from the looks of it, they had taken Lovino's heroin.

* * *

A loud knock at the door. Lovino continued screaming profanities at Feliciano. He had broken out into a heavy sweat and coughed between most of his phrases. Felicaino tugged at the white shirt Lovino had traded his suit for. " _Fretello_ , please, lay back down. Your fever is getting worse."

"Get the fuck off me!" He threw his hand back, catching Feliciano's cheek with a sharp slap.

Feliciano cried out, covering the wound. Tears followed. Lovino commented on the typicality of this, and another knock at the door came. Feliciano ran to unlock the door, finding Ludwig.

"There are noise complaints. They said they won't give us anything to eat unti-" Ludwig began, but cut himself off when he saw Feliciano. With furrowed brows he moved the Italian's hand to see the reddening mark. "What happened?" He asked, tone knowing.

"Lovino's sick and he won't let me help." Feliciano cried. "He keeps throwing the wet rags I bring him at me and he's coughing a lot and his fever hasn't been this bad in a while and I think the stress is causing his sickness to get worse and please can you help me."

Ludwig sighed and shook his head. There was something conflicting on his face. Helping someone so mean must have been getting to him.

Lovino screamed new curses at the German. His energy was dwindling. Turning to Feliciano Ludwig whispered to him: "he's going to crash soon. He can't keep up the act much longer."

"What—What do we do," Feliciano breathed back, staring at Ludwig, amber eyes fearful, "if he wakes up in the middle of the night and leaves?"

"I will keep watch."

Feliciano pressed the side of his hand into his eye. "What if you fall asleep? Ludwig, what if you must leave of go to the bathroom or what if you just close your eyes for just a second and he sneaks past you? What happens if his fever doesn't pass? Ludwig—Ludwig I'm scared." His tried to swallow his sobs but couldn't.

Ludwig didn't scold the Italian for using his first name. Instead he sighed and rested his hand on the teenager's head. Feliciano lifted his teary gaze to meet Ludwig's. "I'll keep watch." He repeated, softer. "You keep a look out for his wellbeing. He won't be able to get past both of us, okay?"

Feliciano nodded. " _Si_ ," he sniffed.

"Good. Now, look, he's quieted down." Ludwig offered him the smallest of smiles. The air of confliction never leaving. "Look after him while I go get us something to eat, okay?"

"Okay." Feliciano agreed.

He locked the door after Ludwig left and returned to his brother. Lovino panted and pushed him away again, but Ludwig was right, Lovino didn't have much energy left. Feliciano dipped his rag in to the cool bowl again.

"Go away," Lovino demanded weakly. Feliciano lay the rag on his head. The sheets were soaked with sweat. Feliciano chewed the inside of his cheek, knowing what it meant but never breathing a word of it. For fear that it would make it somehow realer.

"Ludwig's going to get us something to eat, Lovino, and we're going to figure out a way out. Maybe we can call an ambulance. Get you to a doctor?"

"I don't need a fucking doctor, Feli, I need you to leave me the fuck alone." His words were breathy.

"Just—Just rest Lovino." Feliciano cried. "We'll figure everything out."

* * *

 **AUTHORS NOTE**

 _I really should title this chapter 'A fuckton of foreshadowing.'_

 **HISTORICAL NOTES**

Not much to be said for this chapter.

 _In the beginning of the chapter Feliciano was going on about the Italian Conscription—kind of like a draft. It pretty much states that all able bodied men have to serve the Italian military for so long. They actually didn't end this practice until 2000._

 _Similar note to what Ludwig was doing. His six months was part of the German Conscription—which was only for six months, meaning he stayed in for the whole 'term.' It wasn't until 2011 that Germany left behind their conscription._

 _The song Feliciano is singing is_ La Fisarmonica _by Gianni Morandi._

Until we meet again,

la revedere


	5. Toast to the Ghost

_"What are you doing?"_

 _"Putting it back."_

 _"But what if—"_

 _"Shut the fuck up. I'll reload it later."_

* * *

The water fell, drop by drop, a warming, sobering rain, pounding away; at the skin and at his thoughts and at the breaths he forgot to take. His knees hurt, how long had he been in the shower? Ludwig would be back soon, and his elbows continued to slip and slide. Tears joined the suffocating fog around him.

His thoughts had started simple. Why would Lovino do that? Risk his redemption for nothing. Then they slid into a strange new territory, where he wasn't even sure what he was thinking—just knew that it made his chest hurt—and now his head was blank. He bit his bottom lip, his teeth slid, lips ajar he panted into the floor with a helpless, wordless cry.

Running his towel through dripping auburn locks he opened the door. " _Be_ , Ludwig, you're back!" He exclaimed.

Ludwig stared at him. Looked away. "Have been for a while. Dinner is cold."

Feliciano, replacing the towel with his cross, gasped. "Oh, I'm sorry! What—What did you get? Lovino, dinner!" The older Italian didn't respond, asleep. Feliciano sent him a forlorn glance; he didn't know anymore what to think. Still, he left his brother be, to sleep off his sickness.

"Maybe we should get him to a hospital," Feliciano repeated. He had offered it too many times today. The bond was getting fed up with the suggestion. Feliciano sat.

Ludwig made two makeshift tables out of their suitcases. Feliciano balanced on Ludwig's bed, a loose t-shirt around his frame almost swallowing his crossed legs, sweeping the hair off of his forehead so that he could better see. Ludwig hesitated when he handed Feliciano his plate. Feliciano thanked him for waiting. He nodded. Sat in the arm chair. Took a bite. "Can I turn on the radio?" Feliciano cooed, smiling at his food and twirling his fork around, deciding where to start.

" _Ja_ —" Ludwig answered, almost mechanically.

So he did. _Che sara_ streamed gently into the air as they ate. Feliciano talked, feeling he must. Ludwig answered him with quiet and grunts and stolen glances.

"Ludwig?" A response, but not made verbal, lay in the air. Feliciano took it—a shrug of the shoulders. He would take it. "Why do you keep looking at me?" Clinks, another ignored comment. An Italian laugh— _Whatever will be, will be, what it will be_ — "It's just so funny. You look like you want to say something, but you don't."

"Beilschmidt." He finally said.

"Don't drown in a glass of water, Ludwig," Feliciano laughed. He turned his head then, in sudden passion exclaiming: "you know, we never paid you!"

Ludwig looked up, slightly confused. "What do you mean."

"Well, you work for us now—"

"I have worked for the Vargas family since I moved here."

Slim, furrowed brows behind locks of dripping hair, "what do you mean?"

Ludwig hesitated.

"Gilbert said that you were just—uh—visiting," Feliciano laughed: forced.

Subtle frowns into a dirtied plate. Slicked back hair disturbed and falling out of place. Silence.

"I'm sure Nonno would have told me—told me if you were working for us. Your Nonno was his good friend—which—which makes _us_ friends." His words were forced. Why were his shoulders quivering. Thin, shaking, wide eyed—why wide eyed? Golden eyes, betrayed.

Blond hair beneath the window. Blue eyes beneath the floorboards as they attempted to hide from the scorn and the shame and the—

"Felicaino," Lovino groaned, rolling to the side of his bed. He fell into a coughing fit, pushing Feliciano back when he came to comfort him.

" _Si, fretello_?"

"Go see if they have any medication—down stairs. "He coughed. "Anything…anything strong."

"But what if Car—"

"…Feliciano. Just go."

A wave of desperation fell upon Lovino's countenance. Brunette locks became black, pasted to his skin-though his skin still crawled and lifted as if it were cold. More dramatic, then. Stress, or lack, or maybe just time. Whatever had caused such an increase in symptoms in such a short time took its toll. "Lovino, we really should get you to the doctor's." Feliciano whispered.

"No matter how many times you tell me that," Lovino glared, "I will not change my mind."

Feliciano swallowed his words: _but it's been over a year._

He left. Small steps, not wanting to turn his back on his brother, because he knew that whatever they had—had they anything at all—would not be enough to battle his brother's sickness. He split his lip with his front tooth just as he was reaching the door: _Damn pride!_

The door was about to click.

"He'll forget." Lovino.

"I don't know if I can continue this. He just seems so…"

"You saw what he did. And you know why I didn't want you to come. _Bastardo_ you have no idea how much shit you've caused for me. Fucking pedal."

Feliciano shook his head; blood, copper, the taste danced with the intrepid onions and garlic from dinner. Padding across his floor he had to continue to remind himself to breath. Anger. Sadness. Something or another of the sorts. With a balled fist he cursed his brother. "Always alone," he muttered to his feet. "Not this time. This time I will win, _fretello_ , you're not dying because of _this_ and you're not pushing me away by keeping me alone. Not this time. I won't run."

"Hello!" A cheery voice greeted him.

He looked up, surprised. English. "Uh, hello!" He answered.

In English the blond asked something or another. Feliciano, looking totally lost, shook his head. He had learned a little but of English—but only from the music that would filter over the radio waves from America or England. Past that he was lost.

"I don't speak English."

Did he just say that he didn't speak Italian?

Soon enough the two just stood, face to face, grinning like idiots as they played an unorthadoxed game of charades. Feliciano, of course, had the upper hand. As an Italian his second language was _expression_ , and the other was a bit lack luster but… excited. There was no lack of energy.

"No, no, no!" The blond exclaimed with a laugh. He flashed his fingers, pointed to the floor, scratched his head, then, in a burst of well found ferver: " _Doce_!"

" _Doce_?" Feliciano giggled. " _Dodici_?"

The man clapped, touching his nose and grinning like a maniac. " _Si si si!_ " He took a minute longer to think, pacing and looking at the ceiling as he did so, snap snap snapping his fingers. "Ah!" He made the motions of a large rectangle then pounded his fist into the air. Feliciano watched as he ran around his made up space and opened what seemed to be an invisible door—to which he then proceeded to flirt with himself and offer himself in.

Feliciano almost fell to the floor laughing. Surely he wasn't looking for a room with an escort, or offering sex, as the bags at his heels and strange attire—no class-pegged him out to be a lost traveler. Feliciano wondered if he understood how much this hotel would be charging in the morning.

"Room twelve," Feliciano laughed. "Alright, alright, follow me." He made a gesture at the boy and led him down the hall. The blond would be staying a room away from him, and Feliciano made sure to point out his door. He made a quick gesture, offering wine and letting him know that it was nice to meet him, before turning away to go find the medication.

As he suspected they didn't have anything stronger than _Efferalgan_. He was relieved that they weren't one of the establishments that found heroin ethically sound and legal. Coming into the room he found it dark compared to the well lit hall. Ludwig sat in the chair, Lovino still in bed.

"Lovino, are you going to eat now? It might be better to not take these on an empty stomach." Lovino made a single gesture—fuck off—as he took the two pills. "I'm… going to open a window," Feliciano offered him a smile.

There were two windows in their room. One loomed over Ludwig, who littered his attention across the pages of his novel, with a red curtain covering the glass. The other one, with matching covers, was a few paces away, parallel to Lovino. Feliciano decided to open Ludwig's. "'Scussi!" He exclaimed, pushing past him.

Ludwig groaned and moved best he could. Feliciano caught his eye and offered him the same smile he had Lovino. "You know, there's a tourist in the next room that doesn't speak any Italian. He wanted me to help him find his room! I would love to see the city with him," Feliciano giggled, "some of his hand gestures would get him pummeled."

"You speak English?"

"Oh, no, I don't—Ludwig!" Feliciano had taken a quick glance out of the window. The world was dark, a few lights draining into the sky, but not enough to snuff out the stars or the reddening moon. When Felicaino opened the window, a gentle serenade of people talking and motorbikes whirring and wind kissing flags filtered through. "Oh, isn't it beautiful?"

" _Signore Vargas_ ," Ludwig muttered, a bit uncomfortable.

" _Si_?"

"Please get off my lap."

Color flushing up the Italian's cheeks, Feliciano laughed, quickly securing his place back on the floor. "Sorry! I was just looking out the window. Oh! I wish that we could go outside, Ludwig-Lovino. The wind feels so nice and it sounds so pretty and I would really like to see the beach—just not that beach, you know?—and I would like to go to a pizzeria and talk to some of the locals and hell I wouldn't even mind going to the Casino but of course we can't even get out of here how are we going to get there and look, a motorbike, isn't it so cool?" He was fiddling with his shirt, taking a breath and getting ready to start talking about all the places he had seen motorbikes like that when a bullet flew past his ear.

He was still.

Silent. A gentle hand played by the radio. Or was that the echoing in his head? The ringing, the blast riveting his ear drums. Thrum.

Stared. Gold, running liquid down widening eyes.

"Feliciano!" Ludwig screamed, pushing him to the ground just as another shot rang. The two fell to the floor, Lovino shuffled to the ground himself.

Feliciano gasped, stars appearing in his vision and a grave emptiness filling his chest. Anxiety shot through him, even though he knew it was only because he had the wind knocked out of him. Ludwig grabbed him by the shoulders.

" _Signore Vargas_ ," he whispered, prying Feliciano's hands away from the cross he had glued himself to. No. He was holding his chest. His heart pounded. Thud. "Please calm down."

"There—there—there—shots—" he gasped.

Tanned skin. Adams apple. The collar of a black shirt. These were the only things that Feliciano could see, and he found it difficult to focus on any of them. "Lovino—Lovino—Lovino—" he gasped, falling forward, rocking. He put his head into Ludwig's chest, hyperventilating. "Shots—shots—Lov—please help—him."

" _Signore_ ," Ludwig held him a bit closer. "Take a deep breath. In." he waited, Feliciano tried, but continued breathing outinoutinoutinoutin. "In, _slowly_. Good, out. In. Hold it, try again. Slowly. In, out, good; in, out."

After a whole minute, no other attacks made, Feliciano was able to breath on his own. He tipped his head to look at Ludwig. Tears had soaked through the German's shirt and, though the fear had disbanded a little, his golden eyes still swam. "Thank you," he choked into his shirt. "I'm sorry."

Ludwig shook his head, patting the boy's shoulder. "Don't be. Stay down."

Feliciano nodded. Ludwig hunched just high enough to get his gun from under his pillow. Holding it as he must have learned through the military, he used the area in between the windows to keep cover. Slowly he peered out.

Another shot. Ludwig held himself against the wall, chest rising and falling theatrically. He gulped, Feliciano watched—tanned skin, atoms apple, black shirt. Now it grew to hold a weapon, to stare at the ceiling and ready nerves, to turn around and point out the window. It grew to shoot. And then shoot again.

"Feliciano," Lovino hissed. "Get over here, _stupido_."

"Ouch!"

"Don't give me that shit," Lovino hissed, hitting him upside the head again. "You remember fucking Sicily. You can't go opening your window just whenever the fuck you want. You could have gotten yourself killed!" The yelling had brought on a great coughing fit. Feliciano held his shoulders. "Just… use your head, damn it."

Ludwig snapped the window closed and crouched down to meet them.

"Who is it?" Feliciano asked desperately.

"I don't know, they… got away."

Feliciano sighed with relief. Nodding he began to stand, helping Lovino up as well. Ludwig pushed them back down. "It's best if you lie low. I'm going to inform management of what happened."

"What do you mean?"

"There's two bullets in the ceiling and one in the floor, _Signore_."

Felicaino nodded, finding the damage with his own eyes. "Okay. Hurry-Hurry back. Please."

They waited. Feliciano held Lovino around the shoulders, humming something low as his brother coughed and cursed. Cough. Curse. Feliciano found it a great comfort, even if the other's temperature was so unbearably hot.

It felt like hours before Ludwig had returned. Feliciano looked up at him. Still the only thing that lit the room was the lamp; it hit the German's face in a weird way. Made his face thinner, his hair messier, his eyes a bit bigger; squinting, searching.

Lovino screamed something. English. The older Italian stood up, balancing on the bed, using his free hand to make threats as he continued to yell. The blond from the hallway answered, apathetic. Felicaino shrunk away.

Right, Lovino would know English. He had spent some time in America with Grandpa Roma.

The blond must have known him from that. He used Lovino's code name— _Romano_ —multiple times.

Feliciano shrunk further away when the man from the hallway pointed at him. Lovino paused, his shoulders quivering violently. When he started again he was quiet—deadly. Feliciano had never been so scared in his life. Where was Ludwig?

The blond made forward. Lovino pushed him back, swinging violently. The blond was able to push him aside easily.

Feliciano screamed when he was pulled from the ground. The blond used his height and body weight against the small Italian, throwing him onto the bed and pinning him with his knee.

Lovino pushed forward again. He cried and threatened, in Italian and in English. The blond answered, calm. Lovino swiped, catching the blond in the face, the eye.

The stranger hissed, putting a hand to his face, sneering, stepping back but never taking the pressure from Feliciano. When he pulled his hand away to slap Lovino with the back of his hand, Feliciano saw the damage. His eye was closed, blood dripping from the lashes; drip, drip, dripping onto the smudge. Makeup had smeared. Trailing under the stranger's eye seemed to be a tattoo of sorts. Three tears; black. Filled.

Lovino lay on the floor. His breathing was troubled, he coughed; blood. "Another one," he laughed. Mocking and mean. He said something else in English, looking up at the stranger with a new fire aflame in his black eyes.

The blond then muttered one single thing in Italian. It was quiet, calm; it stopped Feliciano's heart. "They found him stuffed in a cupboard."

With that Feliciano was torn away from the bed and pushed towards the door. Lovino scrambled to his feet, pushing and screaming. He went for the face, kicked at the feet, even came close to hitting Feliciano once or twice. The stranger turned, slightly, stopped.

A shot. Gun. Bullet. Lovino stumbled back, mouth agape, eyes wide, hands held to his abdomen, quivering, shivering, falling.

Falling. Falling. "Lovino!" Feliciano screamed. He fought back against the man, shrieking at the top of his lungs. The sudden rupture of passion had thrown the man off. Feliciano got away just long enough to run over to his pile of clothes. Swiftly he pulled his gun out.

Taking precarious aim he pulled the trigger.

Silence. The blond forced him around, pinning him against the wall and twisting his arm so the empty weapon fell to the floor. Quickly he secured a pair of handcuffs around the Italian's wrist. "Get off me!" Feliciano screamed as he was pushed towards the door. "Let me go! Lovino! Lovino! Get off me! Get the fuck off! Lovino! Lovino! Get! Off! Fuck! Lovino! Lovino!" He screamed and cried as he was wrenched out the door. He kicked and made out to bite and forced the handcuffs to such a point that they made his wrists bleed. When he fell to the floor, writhing and swinging his legs around violently, the blond just picked him up by the cuffs. Feliciano hadn't noticed his athletic build underneath the dumb Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts. "Get off," he howled. "Get off. You fucking shot him! You're going to pay. Get the fuck off of me." His tone became darker, his breaths quicker and tears fluid. His chest dipped and threatened to collapse.

Lovino. Sweet, angry, dying Lovino.

Alone.

He threw himself around pugnaciously. At one point he slammed himself into the wall, turned around and attempted to slam himself into the stranger. He was thrown out the entrance of the hotel.

Lifting his head from the pavement, dizzy, attempting to rise to his knees, he barely caught what the blond was saying from behind him. There was someone else there, but the only thing Feliciano saw through blurred vision was three bodies.

One of them, Ludwig Beilschmidt.

He choked back another sob as a bag was forced over his head.

Blackness. Blackness. Lovino's face, surprised, draining of color. Ludwig, heroic, reduced to a stain on the pavement. And then nothing.

He could think of nothing. He knew it. He knew that he wasn't thinking. How many voices were in his head? How many layers? How many awarenesses knew of the hell he was in but refused to answer his hoarse, silent cries for help?

How many hands? How many hands held him down as he thrashed and fought? A gun barrel to his head was the least of his worries. How many hands?

How many miles? Thrumming beneath him, taking him somewhere far away from his brother.

Dying.

Dying alone.

Alone.

* * *

The bag was taken off his head hours later. Feliciano sat slumped in a chair. His body ached and his cheeks had long since dried.

"Feliciano," someone said. He refused to look up, lolling his head side to side. The man grasped his chin and violently forced his face up. He didn't open his eyes. Just lolled. Side to side. A sharp slap caught his face.

Lovino had done worse. Side to side.

The man let him go, screaming something in English. A sigh.

"Feliciano, please look at us." Feliciano knew that voice. The stranger from the hallway. The murderer. He knelt in front of him, tone soft. "Please?"

Feliciano peeked. The blond must have cleaned his face, the tattoos were gone. His eyebrows were lifted just barely, almost worried, and his blue eyes looked like they almost cared.

Feliciano parted his lips and spoke before he could think. When would he be able to think? "Where's…Lovino?"

The stranger offered him a small smile. "What was that?"

He asked again. Where was his voice?

"Fuck," the other man growled. "You made him a fucking mute."

The stranger rolled his eyes. "I'm sure his voice will be back after a while, Arthur. He screamed _a lot_. Why don't you go make him some tea or something?"

Feliciano closed his eyes again and cried. His hands were still clasped behind his back. He noticed even that his legs were tied to the chair.

The blond left him alone, coming back a little while later to give him some tea. Feliciano lifted his head, allowing himself to be fed. The boiling water scourged his tongue and throat, the flavor was vacant. The blond offered him another small smile; sorry, pathetic.

* * *

Days seemed to pass—though Feliciano had no real idea of time, as the room he was in was windowless and always dark—before something finally happened. He had gotten his voice back but refused to let them know that. He had put together the reason he was here: to give up whatever information they were after.

"Where is he?" Someone entered.

"In here," said the blond Feliciano had learned to be called Alfred responded.

Feliciano stared at the floor. The only time he had been untied was to go to the bathroom. Even then his arms were left cuffed. He feared infection around the cuts, scabs clinging to the metal as if they were attempting to make them apart of his body.

"We took precautions like you ordered," Arthur yawned lamely.

"I see that." The new comer muttered. The world was still for a long moment. Then: "untie him."

Feliciano snapped his head up. Before him stood Arthur, Alfred, and… and the driver that had started all of this. His green eyes were sad and a deep frown lay on his lips.

"What?" Arthur hissed.

"I said," the driver snapped, turning to him, "untie him."

"But—but what if-!"

"Then we sedate him and move him that way." The tanned man growled, rolling his tongue dangerously as he spoke. "But if it doesn't come to that, then we act _civil_."

The two both nodded. Feliciano's legs were untied and the bounds around his arms were released. Alfred helped him stand.

"Handcuffs too."

Alfred hesitated. Finally, he followed orders. Feliciano flinched as the metal tore away from him. His shoulders screamed in protest as he moved his arms forward. He attended to his swollen wrist that throbbed a deep purple.

"Feliciano," the driver said, gently. "I apologize for what has happened recently. And I apologize for not getting to you sooner—you see, I was tied up with other, more _pressing_ matters," he chuckled. "But, alas, I finally get to see you again!" He put his hand out. A wide, stupid smile spread across his face. "Antonio Carriedo."

Feliciano stared. Antonio? He stepped backwards, stepping into Alfred. His lips quivered. Wide grins and honest eyes—how were those behind so much pain and suffering? Feliciano shook his head and threw his gaze to the ground, sealing his lips—despite his eyes beginning to water again.

Of course. It had all been a trap, hadn't it? Threatening their cocaine trades. Were they even threatened? Or had he simply found a way to their workers? How had they been so naïve. Feliciano bit his lip. He had done that a lot, it was raw. This _Antionio_ had played into a sensitive time when neither Feliciano nor Lovino were thinking straight and when Grandpa Roma was too busy to think their proposals through.

Suddenly Feliciano was wrapped into a hug. He stepped back, afraid, trying to get away as his tears soaked the man's suit, choking out a sob. "I'm sorry," Antonio whispered lowly. "I didn't know how else to get your attention. It's just…" he trailed off, tightening his hold and bringing his lips closer to the Italian's ear. "I need your help, Feliciano."

Felicaino shook his head. He wouldn't speak. No, he wouldn't. He wouldn't help this man. This man that was ultimately responsible for the death of his brother; the man that had manipulated him thus far; the man that was using closeness to defeat him, knowing he had been alone. So alone.

He choked on another sob, clenching his fists at his sides. Alfred took a step forward, noticing the small act.

"Feliciano," Antonio whispered again, waving off Alfred, "can you tell me how much you remember?"

Lovino had asked the same thing. When he had watched Gilbert murder that poor man.

He wouldn't speak. No, he wouldn't. "About what?"

"The last week."

"What day is it?" His voice was hoarse, pathetic. He wondered if either of the blonds could hear him.

"Monday."

So, he had been there for almost five days. "I—I remember coming here." Why was he speaking? He wasn't supposed to talk!

" _Si_ , but do you remember when I picked you up-do you remember that?"

He nodded.

"And then what do you remember?"

He shook his head. "I—I don't want to think about that," he cried.

"Do you remember that man?"

 _Face—no, gravel. Bloodied gravel, greedy waves._

"I—I don't want to think about that!" He echoed.

"Do you remember what happened to him?"

 _A whole clip. A whole clip. A whole clip._

" _I don't want to think about that!_ " He screamed, pushing against Antonio's chest. Antonio held him closer.

His voice dropped another octave.

"Do you remember killing him?"

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE**

 _I know it's only chapter four. The plot is moving slowly, but don't worry, we get a little quicker from here. Get to figure out more about the characters and their pasts! (Please don't just skip to the action, either. You don't understand just how much foreshadowing to everything I'm putting in here. IF ONE PERSON AT ALL IS SURPRISED BY THE ENDING OR EVEN THE CLIMAX (OR ANYTHING IN THE BUILD UP TO THAT) I'M GOING TO HAVE TO SLAP A BITCH)_

 _I thought about including different perspectives into this story, mainly Lovino's or Ludwig's, but decided that it would be more challenging to write it only in Feliciano's perspective (minus the wrap up of the resolution, which will be in Antonio's). This makes it a bit harder to move the plot along ifyouknowwhatImean, and keeps a lot of character development to be developed later (hahahahaha if you could have heard Alfred and Lovino's conversation! I wrote it all down before writing this chapter so that I would know exactly what I was developing, and then I made the main character not be able to understand it!), but I think it'll be fun._

 **HISTORICAL NOTES**

 _Less a note and more of a comment (will get into this in a later chapter, when we delve into Alfred and his character) the Italian mafias moved to America arguably in the nineteenth century and grew from there thanks to things like bans on alcohol in 1920s and immigration. There is still an American Mafia in the works today, though thanks to 1970's Congress it is not_ nearly _as strong as it could be._

 _Also, turns out that Feliciano's "ve" could very easily be a version of Italians' habit of saying "Ben," in a casual manner, cutting off the "n" sound._


	6. Omerta

"So you haven't been made?" Antonio asked from beside him. Feliciano tended to his wrists, wincing and chewing on his cheek as he did so. Antonio had, after a while of Feliciano's seemingly endless crying and pushing sat him down. He ordered Alfred to find something to eat; Alfred had returned with a can of beans.

"I— _si_ , but I'm still only a soldier. I only make money," he insisted for the millionth time. I don't work."

Antonio nodded slowly. "And Lovino, what is he?"

Feliciano stared at the swirling colors, picked at the scabs. "Lovino?" He croaked. "Lovino's dead."

There was a long paused. Feliciano refused to look up when Antonio moved. Finally, the other man spoke. "No, he's not." He sounded angry. "He is very much alive—why didn't you two care to inform him of that?" He yelled.

Feliciano's gaze shot up. He couldn't believe it. His trembling lips shook with his fingers as he internalized such a thought: his brother was alive? For five days he had reeled over the thought that-!

"You said he was in critical condition," Arthur muttered.

" _Si_ , and he was. Four days ago!" Antonio squinted his eyes at Arthur, deciding something that play behind emerald eyes. Feliciano knew that look. _Nonno_ got it before mentally putting someone on the hit list. The small Italian shook his head.

"So—he's better?"

Antonio nodded. " _Si_ , Jones is a good shot. He knew what he was doing. _Despite being given direct orders to not harm you or Lovino_ ," venom dripped like honey, "he still made sure your brother didn't die."

Feliciano shook his head more aggressively. "So—he's getting better? He's not… dead? Where is he? Can I see him?"

Antonio's eyes softened. "Of course you can see him. But first—first, _mi hijo_ , you must do something for me."

When had his gaze become sardonic? Feliciano had agreed. He had agreed! Why was he being mean? Where were they—he could have sworn that he hadn't stood up or left or started skipping or, or…

Or laughing.

"I'm glad you didn't kill him," Feliciano found himself saying. "I very much liked his cooking!"

What, Lovino never cooked for him. He shook his head stepping backwards, hitching a breath—

"Wha—What? What?"

"He was very much a pain to get sedated. Gave Roy a black eye." Carriedo tittered. "Not that Roy didn't deserve it. The punk."

"I—" who was Roy? When had his wrists been wrapped? _Where was he?_ He was in a house, he knew that much because they had just walked through door. Outside had been pitch black, as if they had found a way to leave the city. The lighting inside was dismal, the floor was littered with stuff, as if a child lived here. Through a doorless doorway—hinges pulled off, dust covering the carpet—he saw half of a table underneath what he assumed to be a grow light. Orange. Strewn upon bags being separated by a scale. Someone passed the opening, looked out, greeted Carriedo with a booming voice, move to continue his work.

"This way," Carriedo pointed. Feliciano followed.

He started crying as he walked. Why he didn't know. He didn't know anything. Just that he followed down a set of steps, almost tripped, dark, before being led to a corridor. Antonio opened a door, a lamp skittered across the narrow hall, lighting the Boss's hair in a silhouette of dark locks thrown messily about. When had he become so dirty?

Inside the room was a bed. Atop the bed, his brother.

"Lovino!" He cried, pushing Carriedo out of the way. Lovino turned just in time to catch his brother's embrace.

Shrieking. Who was shrieking—oh. Feliciano quickly climbed off his brother, Lovino screaming widely with hisses and curses. His abdomen was bare aside from a white bandage around his torso that now spotted with fresh blood.

"Fucking _idiota_! What— _cazo_!" He fell back, face knitted with agony. "Give me something for this fucking pain, bastard. It's _your_ man that fucking—ahh—shot me you stupid little bitch."

Ludwig was there, too. Not dead.

 _"I very much liked his cooking!"_

Who were the other two bodies?

"Lovino, are you okay?" Feliciano choked through sobs. Snot, of course snot. He couldn't smell. No way he could—but why, when he wiped his face was the snot ashy. No, it couldn't be ash. How could it?

Where was he?

Lovino turned to snap at him, but he paused. He bit back his pain—but how! How could he through clenched teeth keep what shook his body and caused his gaze to become so unsteady? "Felicaino," he hissed. Quiet, he tried again. "Feliciano, how much do you remember?"

Feliciano's voice hitched. Again. Again he was asking. But this time, for the first time?, he didn't know. How could he not know. He shook, more tears. He wanted to hide. He looked up at Ludwig—why was Carriedo so dirty? He had been clean. His hair had been brushed, his suit a status of his position. Even the gold ring he had used to slap Arthur—

When had that happened?

Feliciano fell back, catching Ludwig's gaze. Blue. Comforting. Why?

"Feliciano," Lovino said softer, moving despite his condition. "Calm down. Feliciano put that down."

Put what down. Why. What. He looked down at his hands.

When had he gotten a lighter? Why was it _lit and why was he holding his palm over it and_ why _did he not feel the pain._

He dropped it, falling backwards with unstable steps until he hit the wall with his back. Lovino stood, Carriedo left, Ludwig stayed in the corner and watched. "Feliciano," Lovino cried—he was crying. He was _shot_. "Feliciano please calm down."

 _Lovino never pleaded. His ego was too hot. Hotter than the sun._

Next thing Feliciano knew he was enveloped into a hug. His brother's breath wavered and hitched in his ear and Feliciano knew that the pain was unbearable. Tears fell to Feliciano's neck, but they weren't his. Feliciano cried into his brother's chest as the older Italian pulled him closer. "Felicaino," his brother sobbed, "Feliciano we'll get through this. I—I promise. I _promise_ , Feliciano."

Feliciano tried to speak but couldn't bring his questions to his throat. They just fogged his mind like alcohol. Lovino dropped to his knees and was using Feliciano as a way to balance himself. His body was weak, but his arms never let off. Even though his skin was flushed and clammy he never relented his sobbing promise—despite the fact that they backpedaled. Feliciano nodded to everyone. He didn't know what they were for. He didn't know. He didn't know.

Finally, he spoke. "I don't know what's happening, _fretello_. I'm scared."

"I know. I know. Just stay strong, Feli. Just stay—we'll work through this. Get out."

Of Naples or Italy.

Their situation or the mafia.

Because that was a case of life or death.

Feliciano clung on harder. His mind was a mess. His wrists screamed. His palm finally started to pang. They stay there until Lovino had passed out. Somewhere along the line his own pain and the stress and the exhaustion all took it's tool and he collapsed. Feliciano used his weight to keep him from falling over, calling Ludwig anxiously. The blond helped carry the Italian to his bed.

"You should go get cleaned up," Ludwig said slowly, coming up behind Feliciano who had laid his head down on the bed, lacing his brother's fingers in his own.

"Ludwig," Feliciano drawled, tired. "Ludwig, did they really get away?"

"What?"

"The men. You said they had gotten away. Did you lie?"

There was a pause. Feliciano almost even thought that he had gone away. "Yes."

Feliciano opened his eyes, but he didn't look past the comforter, lazy, tired, sad. "I'm sorry," he responded with a sigh. "I'm sorry for bringing you into this mess. I know, knew, that you didn't want to get involved with this lifestyle. I should have left you in Calabria. Your brother—I—" he shook his head, closing his eyes again. "I thought that it would be lighter. I thought that we could get through this; undergo the casino, find the guy that was harassing our branch and find a way to compromise with him. Find a way to put him in jail or maybe even befriend him. I don't know. But not this. I didn't want the beach to become…stained. I didn't want Lovino to get hurt. I didn't want to make you kill." He must have not had the energy to cry. His voice was quiet and stable. His thoughts just filled his mouth and came out; Ludwig listened behind him, never moving.

"I thought that it would be fun, even. Lovino and I could go on a mission. I would keep him out of trouble, he would keep me from getting killed. Be, I thought it would be the opportunity that I've been missing. It's been years since he ever opened up to me," a pitiful laugh, "since Dad died, I think. That's when he truly cut himself off. Sure, he's always been a bully. He's a quick thinker, and his wit shows it. He also has anger issues, that…that's a given. But there was a time when we depended on each other."

"I—I miss it, Ludwig. I miss him telling me about how stupid _other_ people are. I'm tired of hearing of my own short-comings. He's means well, I'm sure of it, but he doesn't listen and he doesn't care. I thought that I would prove to him here that maybe—just maybe—we could be friends again. But there's just no novel ending to this, is there?" He smiled scornfully into the soft blanket, squeezing Lovino's hand. "There's no going back to Sicily or Calabria without hating each other. He keeps killing and I keep crying and screwing up and putting him in situations that put him in danger and I can't stop it and now I'm doing it to you and I can't imagine how Gilbert is feeling about your absence and I know that this is going to go bad and and and I know that there's nothing I can do about it now because there's something that they want and they told me but _I can't remember_ and I don't know why I can't and now Lovino is dying for more things than I can count and I don't know what to do and—"

He hadn't realized he wasn't breathing until Ludwig set a hand on his shoulder. He was able to stop talking, to suck in the air that fused from his head. The blond took a knee beside him, cajoling his eyes to finally look at him.

He was a mess. His hair wasn't neat as it usually was, looking as if the German had resorted to raking his fingers through them, and there lay bags under his eyes; dark and purple, causing his eyes to look sunken. Still, the blue caught the Italian's attention. Always the color.

"Lovino loves you," he started with. It was a bit awkward; Ludwig was not one for comforting. "And you haven't made him, nor I do anything that we didn't want to do." Feliciano opened his mouth to argue but Ludwig shook his head. "My life is the mafia. _I_ decided that, _Signore_ , not you. And the men I killed were because I wanted to do my job. I've chosen my fate, and so has your brother. He loves you and wants to protect you."

"I—I don't want to be protected, Ludwig."

Ludwig sighed, shrugging. "It's inevitable. We all need to be protected, to have each other's backs. If you want to feel more like an equal to Lovino then _you_ have to decide what your fate is." A pregnant silence sat between them. Feliciano brought his gaze back to the comforters. His mouth opened and closed, but he didn't know what he wanted to say.

For the first time there wasn't a prayer at the tip of his tongue.

"Now go get yourself cleaned up." Ludwig stood, hovering his hand over the Italian's shoulder. "The bathroom is down the hall. We have full access to it."

Feliciano avoided the mirror. Feliciano pretended to not see the mud on his clothes. Feliciano allowed himself just this moment to only focus on his aches and pains—forget the grievances.

* * *

He returned to screaming.

Lovino had woken up, Carriedo had returned. Lovino was fighting against the older man's hold, thrashing and demanding something.  
"Calm down, Lovino," Carriedo grunted, catching an elbow to the face. "He's fine, isn't he?"

"You're a fucking bastard. A fucking bastard! You don't even understand what the fuck you're doing! You—" he stopped talking, too busy struggling "—let me go! You fucking bastard!"

Feliciano made a small sound. Lovino fell silent, looking up at him. His black eyes were crazed in the dark but softened when they caught his brother. Feliciano had put on his dirty pants and undershirt, holding the rest of his clothes in the crook of his elbow.

Carriedo, letting out a sigh of relief, let go of Lovino. Lovino dug his elbow into his chest once more, standing up—though more life kneeling over. Carriedo growled a small "if you weren't already hurt," but didn't move.

"Lovino," Feliciano said, putting down his clothes and running over to keep his brother from falling over. "You really should lie down."

"We're getting out of here." Lovino decided, slinging his arm over Feliciano's shoulders.

"Where—Where's Ludwig?"

"Don't fucking care. Let's—" he fell into a coughing fit.

Feliciano looked at Carriedo, half wanting help, half wanting to apologize—the third half wanted to shoot him, but he swallowed that half.

"Come one, _fretello_ ," he finally sighed. "You wouldn't last without medical attention. So, unless you want to go to a hospital—that's what I thought. Just rest a while longer."

Lovino sourly agreed.

"Come with me, Feliciano," Carriedo ordered.

"I—I don't want to."

"Ludwig and I are going to try something," Carriedo smirked, trying to be playful but coming off as sadistic. "Worst-case scenario is you forget."

"No!" Lovino screamed. "Worst case scenario is he fucking remembers. You fucking bastard—"Lovino moved to get up again. Carriedo groaned.

"Lovi, if you can't keep quiet I'm going to have to sedate you. I _really_ don't want to do that."

"What—What are we going to be doing?" Feliciano squeaked.

"You're not going anywhere, is where you're going!"

Carriedo, sighing, took something small out of his pocket and poked Lovino with it. He unstuck it just as quickly, resecuring it in his pocket. "I really hope he doesn't find this as his next excuse to get high," the man muttered to himself.

"What are we going to be doing?" Feliciano repeated, tensing.

Carriedo smiled at him. "We're just going to see some people in town. Don't worry, we won't be committing any crimes."

"And Ludwig is going?"

"I didn't think you'd feel comfortable without him or your brother, and, well, your brother wasn't an option." The man laughed lightly, scratching the back of his head. "Him getting shot really did throw a wrench in my plans."

Feliciano chewed on the inside of his cheek. "What do you want?"

Carriedo's expression became serious. "I've already told you what I want, Feli."

Feliciano shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. "Well—Well I don't remember. Say it again!"

Carriedo sighed, shuffling with his new suit. "We'll talk about it later."

"No! I want to know what you want. Who you are—why are you doing this?" Feliciano fixed him with a hard stare. Well, as hard as his trembling frame could manage.

The tanned man offered a small smile. "I'm an old friend. Your grandfather has done a lot for me, and I promised I'd do this for him, Feli. You probably don't remember me, I'm a bit hurt Lovi doesn't, but don't worry about that. I'm here to help you, and on the way, you're going to be doing me a lot of assistance yourself."

"With what?"

"Securing the Carriedo name."

"But—I don't want to. Even with the Vargases I'm only an associate! I don't want to help you secure anything. I don't—"

Carriedo laughed lowly. "Come." He took hold of Feliciano's shoulder, pushing him towards the door firmly. "You're much more than what you believe, Feli. If I succeed, you'll finally be able to rise to _Consigliere_."

"But—But that's _fretello_ 's place. I—I don't—"

"Your grandfather's legacy goes to you, Feli. Lovino knows this, and I'm sure he's happier with the fact that it will work out like this. And, if Roma succeeds in Sicily, you won't have to worry about taking anything from Lovino. Roma will become the _capo di tutti capi_ of _Costra Nostra_ , and both of you will become _Don_ s of his branches."

Feliciano shook his head. "No—No I don't want to."

"Just give me a chance to convince you. No, stop dragging your feet. There's a change of clothes upstairs and Roy will wrap your wounds. Put some salve on the burn?" He offered Feliciano a final smile.

* * *

The suit was loose around the Italian's shoulders, but it wasn't made for him. It was nice, the room for his bandages to hide under the cuffs of his attire. The burn hadn't been bad enough to bandage. Ludwig looked a bit more composed, the bags under his eyes still apparent.

"Here," Alfred handed him a hat and what looked to be a fake mustache.

"You said we wouldn't be doing any crimes. Why do I need a disguise?"

"It's just a precaution. You never know with they'll do."

Right. The Camorra, an organized group of warring tribes. Feliciano just frowned at Ludwig, who took his own things with a solemn nod.

The four of them walked out of the house. Outside was beginning to lighten with day. Feliciano chewed on his lip. Hopefully the daylight would besmirch any dire plans this Boss set out to accomplish.

The house was attractive. It sat in its neighborhood, surrounded by neat shrubbery, and boasted its decorative gates. In the back Feliciano caught the sight of a playset. In the driveway sat a glossy white Lancia, though the model wasn't something Feliciano could place. Maybe it was customary with its rounded windows and sharp aesthetics.

A group of people stood in the yard. They looked to be having an early morning get together with friends; woman wearing simple attire and children bouncing around with the kiss of summer sticking stubbornly to their skin. Feliciano wondered why they weren't in school. Their car was met with tension.

Parking on the street, Alfred let out a heavy sigh. He nodded to Carriedo. The both of them got out of the car. Feliciano was about to follow, but Ludwig put a cautious hand on his arm. "Let's wait in here. If they need us they will get us."

Feliciano nodded, relieved that he wouldn't have to participate in the intuitive.

"Antonio, what are you doing here?" A man asked. His hair was cut to the scalp, but his face was well groomed, which was strange set against his sizable gut. He followed Carriedo's every move with beady eyes. "I thought I told you to not come around—"

The man was met with a powerful punch to his stomach. He kneeled over, woman gasping and stepping away. Alfred was used as backup, wrestling another man who pulled out a gun.

"Come on," Ludwig decided.

Feliciano shook his head. "No—I don't—"

" _Signore_ , listen to me, okay? In…out. Focus on your breathing. Okay?"

Feliciano was caught like a fly in his words. In. Out. He nodded. The two came out of the car.

Feliciano braced the weapon he had been given. Ludwig followed suit.

Carriedo established his knee to the man's stomach. He gasped, grasping with his hands to try and stop his assailant. Ludwig and Feliciano busied themselves when Carriedo was almost pummeled with a bat. Ludwig caught it in the air, throwing the man backwards and swinging the butt of his pistol forward, catching the man in the jaw.

Feliciano played with his trigger. The weight of the gun, the weight of the bullets, the responsibility; it almost burned through his palm.

" _Veneziano_ ," Ludwig yelled, just as the boy was swung at. Feliciano jumped back, but not quick enough to come out undamaged. The man Alfred had been fighting came at him—Feliciano looked over to see Alfred swarmed by three other men. Carriedo fought more than just his target now, Ludwig rushed to help Alfred.

It was all too much.

Why were they here?

What crimes had been committed? What disrespect?

The first gun shot dropped the man Feliciano couldn't raise his fist to.

Ludwig growled, kicking the body aside and placing his hands on Feliciano's shoulders. " _Veneziano_ , you're breathing too quick. What did I tell you? In, good, now out."

Ludwig's gun was hot against Feliciano's shoulder.

"I—I don't want to fight," Feliciano sobbed, grabbing Ludwig's wrist when he turned away.

"I know."

He left. Bullets were introduced to the fight. After three had fallen the rest scattered, following the woman and children through the shrubbery. Carriedo's target was getting away.

Unworried Carriedo and Alfred came together. Both raised their guns, took aim, and shot. Usually when people get shot, they fall. But he didn't. They were shooting at his back, the power of the bullets was just pushing him forward. Like he was dancing. A marionette stuffed with lead.

Ludwig was at his side. "In, out." He spoke softly. Feliciano just turned and shoved his face into the German's chest. Ludwig sighed, wrapping a single arm around the teen. "In…out…good, _Signore_ , good."

They went out to eat. Peeling away their disguises and leaving the car parked a few blocks away, Carriedo lead them to celebrate. Felicaino held his tongue, staring at the ground as they walked, and even more so when Carriedo was greeted warmly by the hostess. Ludwig stayed close to him. He focused on that warmth, stoic and conflicted and somehow safe though Feliciano knew he was nothing but trouble.

They were served something Spanish. Feliciano frowned down at the corn and tomato mixture on his plate. Ludwig followed suit. Carriedo held animated conversation, hoisting his glass above his head and calling over the hostess to flirt with her.

"How you hurt me," said a man, appearing in the doorway of the dining room. He sent Carriedo a smirk, leaning against a short decorative table, finding way through grace to not disturb the lilacs. Feliciano looked up, not recognizing him; golden hair, waving in dead air, stubble across his face and thin lips setting into a playful pout. His attire was not Italian, something French, and cut just under the nook of his elbow with straight pants. His jacket wasn't buttoned, allowing a hint of a belt buckle to shimmer alive.

Carriedo's boisterous attitude darkened—but not sinisterly. Mischievously. "Well if it isn't true. I thought they were lying when they told me you won."

The man strode forward. "Oh no, no. You know me better than that."

'Tell me, then," Carriedo chuckled, "how exactly did you win?"

"The only way a Frenchman knows how to." The blond—blond, blond, this Antonio Carriedo must have a thing for blonds, foreign blonds—leaned over and whispered something into Carriedo's ear.

The tanned man threw his head back, exuberant. "You better run back to your own country," Antonio teased. "If that story gets out you'll be tortured."

The blond winked at him. "Law of omerta protects me, _non_?"

"Words break, and so do bones."

Alfred shot his gaze to the floor. Feliciano caught this, something fizzing in his stomache.

"Feliciano," Ludwig whispered, keeping his gaze to his plate. "Put the lighter away."

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE**

 _How does Antonio redeem himself enough for us to start shipping him and Lovino? Spoiler alert, he doesn't. This fic is just full of awful people. You're welcome._

 _Also, it was not an accidental inconsistency for Feliciano to start referring to Antonio as Carriedo after they got back from the first_ mission _._

 **HISTORICAL NOTES**

 _Where do we start?_

 _Okay, so the first line in the chapter is "So you haven't been made?" This refers to someone who is fully initiated in the mafia. There is a chance that this is only an American term, but I used my liberties as a fan fiction writer to let a Spanish guy say it. Shoot me._

 _The lighter is personal commentary on how ruthless the mafia can be. You think its all shooting? Oh no no, lets enter the grenades and knifes and fires and sociopaths. It really is sick. Some of the scenes or flashbacks that I will be entering are based on true stories—and no, not that Hollywood_ **Based on a true story; Oh no there's a bang at the door** — _and I will leave the stories and all that in this section._

 _Italian Mafia rankings (from bottom to top):_

 ** _Associate_** _: these people are not really considered a part of the crime rink. They're like a cousin's friend that you invited because you wanted your cousin to go. They work for the family, but not in the way that a soldier does:_

 ** _Soldier_** _: also known as a soldato or sqarrista. They are the lowest level of made man and in some organizations must kill someone to get this far. Hence why Feliciano only considers himself an associate. Their jobs are from a wide range of intimidation, usually just day work. Alfred is considered a soldier, though as will be seen later is technically only an associate because he, in this fic, is only half Italian._

 ** _Caporegime_** _: kind of like a crew captain. They oversaw so many soldiers, and had the power to put together their own crew. They still have to see to the underboss to get their proposals accepted or denied, though, so they didn't have all the power. If the family needs someone murdered it is usually the caporegime that acts as the hit man. Gilbert is considered a sort of Caporegime—though because he is German it is totally unofficial. The soldier's money goes to the caporegime, who then shares it with the underboss, takes his share, and then returns the rest of the money to his crew. Also can recruit an associate the be made into a soldier._

 ** _Consigliere_** _: the right hand man to the Boss. This is Lovino's current function, though Antonio seems to think it belongs to Feliciano. The Consigliere does not have any men working directly for him, and works more as an adviser to the Boss. There is usually only one of these per family/organization._

 ** _Underboss_** _: This guy oversees everything above (while, aside from the Consigliere). He's kind of like a manager. They decide who is hired, oversees murders, and is the one to take the place as Boss if the Boss dies until a new Boss is appointed. In this fic the Consigliere is going to take over when Roma dies, being Lovino._

 _Boss: The highest level in a crime family. Often time gains power and rules the rest with fear._

 ** _Capo di tutti capi_** _: The boss of all bosses. This is a position to describe the most powerful of bosses. Pegged by the media and staying there, it is not an actual position, but it was used to hint at how broad Roma's plans in Sicily are._

 _Antonio's comment after Francis tells him how he 'won' was pointed at the fact that Italians were still pretty hard on gays in the late 20th century. Of course, Antonio is being hyperbolic by saing he's going to be tortured._

 _FINALLY, the Law of Omerta. This is a family-based code in organized crime that pretty much says the penalty for snitching is death. Anyone wishing to become a Soldier (see above) has to take the pledge of omerta, promising not to tell anyone anything._ What happens in the mafia stays in the mafia. Or else you die. _pretty much._


	7. 45

_"They will burn, baby. It is not your judgment. You cannot do upon them what He can. They will burn."_

 _They will burn._

* * *

A golden eruption dizzied itself, dancing to an orchestral arrangement of tension and arrogance, welcoming, deterring Feliciano as he stepped through the double doors of _Chica Con Suerte_. Men sat around tables as they did every day, heads and beaded eyes small beneath grandiose light fixtures, staring at each other with venom and bite, shuffling their cards and toying with their dice or hats or toothpicks or expressions. Everything here was a competition. Bright games chimed through the halls.

Francis Bonnefoy was the one running up the stakes today. Feliciano watched him, cautious of how his stare pierced; cautious of how his hands moved so methodically it was obvious how he made accomplices in the Italian mafia. He cheated. Everyone knew it, but none dare to speak up against his poisonous smiles and cackling eyes. Those that did met a barrel.

Feliciano knew they did because since he had started 'working' at Carriedo's casino he had seen it happen twice. One was an oleaginous man who spent equal amounts of time fingering chips as he did eating them. Feliciano remembered him best. His face had wrinkled and curled into itself, a towel kneading away sweat constantly between the furls of his forehead, cheeks, and neck. He didn't speak, but blubber and his hair were greasy and black atop his head. Feliciano traded out snacks and refreshments, and never was Feliciano more than an elbow's length away from him.

He had smelt of cheese and alcohol. Feliciano has thought it funny, deciding he smelt more French than the blond across the table. Said blond only intensified the smell through-out their game.

 _"You're cheating!" The fatty man had cried, slamming clammy fists into the table. The world shook._

 _"_ Non, non, Je ne sais pas _.'' Bonnefoy cooed, passing a chip from finger to finger. The smirk, sent with a sly glance, was dark. "I am no cheater. You are simply no good."_

 _He had lunged, sausage fingers twitching for a throat. Within seconds a third fighter joined the group, pressing the barrel of his gun into one of the rolls._

 _The fat man threw his hands up, swallowing, crying that the vermin was cheating, slowly sitting down. Feliciano clutched his bottle of wine, it sloshed with his trembling hands. Just when he thought that the gun was being taken away, a shot._

 _The body had been hidden in plain sight. Why put in the effort when people dropped like flies in Naples? Strewn across the pavement, while a portion of the French man's winnings passed obese hands. Poisoned by abundance._

Today Feliciano passed with a low head. "Wine?" he would ask. "Anything to eat?" Anything to keep you here? Gambling yourself into debt until a decision of life or death is on the line? Shall we get our gun, or would you like to use your own? The price of using your own is your family—though of course, you're here again today, aren't you? What do they really matter?

Feliciano bit his lip. It throbbed, sharp, raw and swollen just where his tooth hit.

"Feliciano," a woman lay a gentle hand on his shoulder. She wore a simple floral dress, though the v was cut just far enough that men could guess why she circled the casino. "Boss wants you."

"I just started," Feliciano argued. Pleaded. "I'm not supposed to leave until Ludwig comes to get me."

She shrugged, delicate curls falling over pudgy shoulders. "Don't know what to tell you, doll. He's in his office."

Slow steps, an extra minute to put down his bottle—replacing it exactly where he got it, even though another bottle had taken its place, forcing him to rearrange a whole counter of vodkas and wines and liquors and—and it didn't take nearly as long as he had hoped.

 _"Si?_ Andria said that you wanted to see me."

His office was as grand as his casino floors. A great desk faced the door, Italian oak waxed and carved to perfection. Though a window stood behind the desk, magnificent, covered by a fluttering curtain that winked out to the city, Feliciano still felt a looming impression of oppression tighten around his body, squeezing him into submission as if he were stuck in a crate.

"Ah, yes," Carriedo looked up from an excessive deal of paperwork. Setting down his pen he motioned for Feliciano to sit down.

Feliciano followed orders.

"Do you feel ready to stop working here?" He asked, furrowing his brows with confusion. "It's been two weeks already. I was sure that you would have grown bored."

Feliciano shook his head. "I ran a shop in Sicily. I'm used to customer service."

He took a moment, a pause, before sighing. "Then we will have to find another angle."

Fizzing and tingling all at once, Feliciano's heart dove to his feet. "Please don't!" He begged. "You said that you needed my help and so I offered my services here! I—I work well with people. I don't mind if it's boring or if the people are rude creeps. I can do it; I can."

"I'm not doubting whether or not you can do it, Feli." Carriedo laughed. "I know that you can."

"Then let me keep doing it. Until Lovino heals and then we can be out of your hair."

Another sigh, long fingers kneading temples. "Lovino being hurt has nothing to do with it."

Tears. "Please, just tell _Nonno_ that you succeeded and let us go."

 _"You act as if I hold you prisoner!" Carriedo erupted, hot fury bursting from his words. "I am only helping you!"_

Feliciano flinched away.

Carriedo growled, tapping his fingers against the stacks of paper. Nervous tick. Why did Feliciano always notice those? Tick, tick; tap, tap.

"Why can't you just be fun?" Carriedo growled to himself. "I swear, I'll have to kill your brother to get anywhere."

Feliciano bit down so hard his lip split. Again.

"Go on. There's something I want you to do tomorrow, but today go wait." Carriedo dismissed him with an irritated wave of his hand.

He scuttled away.

When Ludwig came to get him, jaw set, hand always hovering his weapon, Feliciano practically threw himself at the German. "He—He says that there's some new angle and—and I don't—what he wants." Feliciano forced out. His hands quickly pulled away from the overcoat he wore, leaving the Italian in a white dress shirt that still felt too confining. "Not prisoners—what does he mean—I don't—we need to leave, Ludwig."

 _"Signore,"_ Ludwig finally responded. Strong hands stopped the trembling fingers. "Stop stripping. You are in public."

Feliciano didn't care. He would peel his skin if he could. "Ludwig, he—he went missing and all he did was make him mad. What if—I can't do what he wants?"

Arthur had been reported missing five days ago. Feliciano asked Alfred about it, but all that had attained was evasive eyes and dangerous tones.

"He threatened to kill Lovino. Please—Please we have to, have to go."

"We can't, Signore. Even mentioning it puts us in danger." Ludwig hissed. "Now put on your clothes and come with me."

"Where—"

"Don't. Just come."

Feliciano nodded. Ludwig looked around before they left. His uncertainty clutched Feliciano's thoughts, making part of him felt like he was being walked to his execution. There was no car waiting just outside the casino. No Alfred, no noose of cigar smoke, no humming engine promising a return to his brother as the sun blinked itself to darkness. Just walking.

Feliciano hung his coat in the nook of his elbow despite the chill in the air. Grey shadows at their feet grew smaller and lighter the further away from the grand lights of Chica Con Suerte they got. Soon they were gone. People hustled around them, scooters trolling the streets as masked drivers watched the pair with anonymous stares.

The pair turned away from the main road. They were alone. Ludwig was turned away from him, stone. "Ludwig," Feliciano stuttered out. Confused, afraid, worried, he stepped forward and outstretched his hand. "Ludwig I—"

The German turned. It was Feliciano's turn to meet the barrel of a gun.

Tick, tick; tap, tap; another dart in the wood.

"Lud-Ludwig! What are you doing?" Feliciano cried. He tried to move but was frozen.

Ludwig's hair was silver under the night sky, his eyes steel. Stone, always stone, stoic, a hero in some story spun by an American.

Feliciano's voice caught. Should he throw up his hands? Surrender? Somewhere he forgot to look for personalization, to plead, and he just stared down the barrel.

If this was the end, he would take it. He would always take it. A slap. Nothing but an ear. Silence and loneliness that sang in a cacophony of tears.

Because the accordion would always play for him. Swooning steps. Falling steps. Laughter and promises and falling and catching and twirling and blue.

Blue.

He would take it. If only for a moment before his hero pulled the plug.

Taking a small breath, Feliciano closed his eyes, dropped his outstretched hand.

He didn't flinch when he was hit. Except, he was sure he hadn't been shot. Bullets don't envelope, don't warm, don't…cry.

"Why don't you save yourself, _verdammt?"_

It was Ludwig. The clang Feliciano so intently listened for had been the dropping of the pistol, the feeling was the German's body encasing his own. The boy allowed his overcoat to drop to the ground but couldn't move past that.

"What are your motives?" Trembling. Crying. Silver hair shivering on December's tongue, dancing against the nape of a professionally trimmed collar. Ludwig was losing his tan.

There was a great conflict presenting itself in the German's words. Falling from his lips and dropping to the Italian's head, begging to be set straight. But like everything else in his life, Feliciano was forced to just go along with it. He didn't know what to think, what to say.

All he knew was that for once he wasn't crying. All he knew was that disappointment was the worst kind of sentence.

The German's hand held the back of Feliciano's head, holding the boy's gaze straight into his chest, his neck, as he talked—he had been talking. Right, Feliciano was distracted. More questions. More…questions. Why couldn't he focus? Was the German not speaking Italian? He blinked. Again. Amber eyes attempted to focus on anything but the lock of hair that kept swinging into his peripheral vision. He felt heavy. Weighed down though every time his knees attempted to give Ludwig would hold him closer. Up. Grounded. From.

Feliciano spoke. He couldn't remember deciding to speak through fluttering lashes, but nonetheless: "I'm sorry."

There was a great tension. Had he answered one of Ludwig's questions? What had been said? Closing his eyes and resting his forehead on the German's chest he mouthed something else. What? A moment, maybe ten, however long it was that he went without breathing before stars appeared and his head went dizzy and his body forced him to take another breath, passed before he said it allowed.

"But who cares?"

His words were so mean. They should have slashed his gut, infected him with a great guilt as mean words always did; but, he was numb. Ludwig's arms tightened. Had he not heard him? Why was he still so close?

"I do," Ludwig said. Feliciano had caught that. Or maybe he imagined it?

Or maybe it was actually said because for some reason Feliciano scoffed at him and shook his head and he remembered every single thing that he did but what was he feeling because he felt nothing; perhaps a bullet had made contact, taken out him, but when he finally moved his arm to his head he found no wound.

"And Lovino," Ludwig had continued softly.

"Why?"

A pause. "I don't know."

What doesn't he know? The illusive hair still toyed with his focus, only weren't his eyes closed?

He stood there for what felt like forever. He was stuck in his head, but it felt as if his thoughts never got anywhere. Ludwig was warm. He was safe. Feliciano focused on this, finally allowing himself to return the desperate hug that Ludwig had offered. It felt…wonderful. Something inside him fluttered, breaking some pipe or knob because his lips began to tremble, sore against Ludwig's clothing. "Neither do I." He cried. Tears.

Never had he been so relieved to cry.

Their circling rendezvous ended with Feliciano falling to the floor in a mess of emotions. He pawed at his eyes and ruined his shirt with snot. Ludwig fell with him, staring, understanding, blue.

* * *

Feliciano dreamed of that barrel. Only there, unharnessed and beckoning, it blinked.

He woke up next to Lovino. His brother was getting better. The wound still required caution, but the muscles were tending to themselves well; and, though he still broke out into fevers, to which was to be expected, he was more himself. Now he snores, a hand draped over his face and drool staining the side of his mouth. Feliciano smiled.

As he sat, careful not to disturb sleeping beauty, Feliciano caught the signs of movement at the door. Ludwig had taken up a bedroom upstairs, so there was a possibility that it could be him, though Feliciano had a sinking feeling it wasn't. Slowly he drew his weapon from its place under the mattress.

 _"I swear, I'll have to kill your brother to get anywhere."_

He made sure the safety was on, was pointed towards the floor, and that his finger was nowhere near the trigger as he walked forward. Speaking just outside were familiar voices. Carriedo and Bonnefoy.

"Please don't wake up Lovino," Feliciano coyly announced.

The two men stopped conversing. "Feliciano?" Bonnefoy. His stupid accent wrecked the teen's name. The pair came into the room.

"Oh, thank goodness you're here, Feli," Carriedo sighed, coming forward for a hug, despite the Italian's lowered gun. Feliciano stepped back.

"What do you mean?"

"Have—Have you seen Ludwig? He never came home last night."

Home. The word was bile on the tongue.

"Yes, he did. We came back to the house together last night," Feliciano insisted. "Roy saw us. Go talk to him."

The two shared a look. Something was happening. Feliciano was getting sick of not knowing. "Roy's not around either."

"Well, maybe they went out for a stroll." Feliciano bit back. "You're not tricking me into anything, Boss." The title was fire in his mouth. This man wasn't his boss. He wasn't even sure if this man was Italian.

"What?" Carriedo asked.

"A new angle?" Feliciano rolled his eyes, the gun trembling in his hand. "Don't think that I forgot about that. Now, leave. Lovino needs his rest and—"

"Feliciano, this is serious." Carriedo cut in. His tone was sterner now. "Now, your naivety may be clouding your ability to think, but this isn't Calabria. We're surrounded by enemies here. Ludwig has been associated with the Carriedo name by being your bodyguard."

Feliciano frowned. No, he wasn't going to believe this. "I—I'm not a fool!" He defended. "You're just trying to trick me!"

"When was the last time you saw him?" Bonnefoy asked. "Last night, what time?"

"I—I don't know. Around ten, maybe. He wanted some alone time to read. So—So I came to check on Lovino and went to bed."

"Is there anywhere that he could have gone?" Carriedo asked. "Anywhere that you know he likes to go? Anywhere you two discussed going?"

"No! As far as I know, you keep him under just as strict a lock-and-key as me and Lovino!"

"Okay, thank you." They turned to leave.

"Wait! Where—Where are you guys going?"

No no no no no—he was falling into their trap.

"To try and find him," Carriedo said over his shoulder.

They disappeared. Feliciano bounced on his toes, swinging his gun from the foot of Lovino's bed to the door. "Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck." He cursed, feeling his breaths start to quicken.

In, out. Remember that much.

He made his decision rashly. Putting down his gun he threw on a pair of pants and a wrinkled shirt from the floor. Harshly he shook Lovino awake.

Lovino bleared through sleep-filled eyes at him. "The fuck do you want?" He growled.

"I—I think that Ludwig is in trouble," he said, hurriedly. "But it might be a trap. Just…Just know that if I don't come back—"

Lovino was at full attention. "What the fuck are you going on about _, Fratello_? I swear—"

"Lovino!" Feliciano snapped. "I don't—I don't have time. Just be careful. I don't think that we can trust Carriedo."

Something of a deep frown creased on Lovino's features. A twinge of suspicion sat at the bottom of Feliciano's gut, but he moved it aside. _"Ti amo, Fratello._ Be careful."

"Me be careful?" Lovino screamed after him as he bounded from the room. "Feliciano, you fucking _bastardo_ -!"

He caught up just as the car was beginning to peel from the drive. Stuffing his gun in his pants, he waved his arms about like a lunatic. The car stopped. Bonnefoy opened the door.

 _"Bonjour, mon amie_." He greeted _._

"I—I want—to help find him." Feliciano panted.

No one questioned his decision. Alfred was driving.

* * *

Feliciano knew he was making a mistake.

Tick, tick; tap, tap; another dart in the wood.

His point was further concluded when the car rolled into a parking lot. Cars flew past, the building having long since been destroyed, leaving an empty lot of rubbish and despair.

He clasped his hands into fists. Still, he found a way to keep his voice steady. "What are we doing in the middle of nowhere?"

"Finding Ludwig." Not an ounce of hesitation. Feliciano fingered the place where his gun dug into his hip. "I wouldn't be pulling that out just yet," Bonnefoy flirted.

"What do you mean?" Feliciano snapped. "We're just here to find someone, aren't we? Unless you already fucking know where he is, of course." Anger. Fizzing, bubbling, inching to grab his gun.

No. No, he can't. In, out. Stay focused on the mission—find Ludwig. Bonnefoy and Carriedo, they could mean well. Feliciano was making a judgment that wasn't his to make. He chewed on his lip. Raw, painful, he chewed. Not his place, he bit harder, not his place.

The car stopped just as Feliciano closed his eyes and whispered: "Give me the strength to defeat my hardships. Allow me to only work as an extension of You and Your grace."

Carriedo grinned at him. "Nice thought," he decided, pressing something into the Italian's palm. "Let's see how it pans out."

Feliciano looked down. A lighter. His breath hitched and raised. In, out. An itching feeling, familiar and dull. Throbbing, burning. In, out. In out. Inout.

"Feliciano," someone snapped. Feliciano blinked. Something was hot. His whole body rolled in sweat. The air was smoky. The whole world, ablaze. "In. Out. Just focus on that." Ludwig!

Feliciano noticed the weight dragging him down. He was climbing what seemed to be a set of stairs, narrow, dragging Ludwig along. Looking over he could see the apparent bruises on the German's face through the fog. He grunted with every step, a hand over his mouth to keep out the smoke.

"Lud—Ludwig?" Feliciano gasped; immediately regretting that decision when he started coughing.

"Felic— _Signore_ ," Ludwig seemed relieved. "Keep going."

Feliciano nodded, attempting to sniff away his tears but the smoke stung and hurt. Feliciano could see the opening of the rubbish. The sky was clear, the sun blinking their direction. He swooped to the side, head dizzy and light and filled with smoke. Ludwig muttered something, but he didn't catch it. He just climbed; wobbly, but he kept going.

Finally, they made it to the ground floor. Feliciano crawled away from the flames before collapsing. Ludwig fell hard beside him.

"Good!" Chirped a voice. Feliciano attempted to look up, but the world was blurry.

Someone else clapped. "You weren't joking. Fun indeed!"

Ludwig coughed. Feliciano wanted to see if he was alright, but he was sore. He couldn't think straight. Couldn't imagine what happened, why, or care. He hurt. His lungs continued to collapse on themselves, and Ludwig suffered no more than half an arm's length away—yet he could do nothing about any of that. All he could do was cry into a pile of broken glass.

He briefly remembered being dragged to his feet. Falling. Turning over and closing his eyes, wanting nothing to do with his situation. He half-way remembered being thrown in the car, his head heavy and falling against the door. Somewhere he heard someone talking

"Hope he's not dead."

"Better take him to the bunker to be safe."

The last thing he could remember was someone digging at his skin with tweezers. "Stop moving. It'll only hurt a little bit." He hadn't been wrong. Feliciano hardly felt a thing.

Until he woke up. The aches and pains and minor burns all roared to life across his body. He didn't want to raise his head, but the throbbing had turned into something more over the course of the last few hours, giving him only intervals of sleep in between discomfort and pain.

He was dehydrated. His head pounded against itself, swelling to the size of his skull before oozing away. He couldn't think.

Sitting up—despite his body telling him quite directly not to—the teen took in his surroundings. Dark, familiar. He was back here. Only this time his wrists weren't tied and he was totally alone. No Alfred, no Arthur, not even a Ludwig or a Lovino to ease his despair. Just him.

Putting a hand to his head he attempted to stand on shaky legs. It took a few tries, but finally, using the all to balance, the teen was able to slide his way to the only door in the room. He found it unlocked.

"Twice now," Carriedo. "I don't think I can give him another dose, though. He's already slipping back into some of his habits."

"You're the one who had to go this far." Bonnefoy.

"Well, I didn't see any other option. I really didn't think he'd do that much damage."

"Six men, mon amie."

"Seven if you count—"

"Where is he?" Feliciano demanded. He didn't care to listen to their conversation. They knew he was up. They knew he was listening. He wouldn't fall for another trick. "Where is Ludwig?"

"Ah—Ah! Feli," Carriedo quickly rose to his feet. "Are you alright. Let me look."

"I asked to see Ludwig. And then I want to see Lovino. And then I want to leave."

"Leave?"

"Naples. I'm contacting my grandfather the second I get out of here. If—If you don't let us leave then I will have to use force." Even he knew it was an empty threat.

Carriedo laughed softly. "Feli, calm down. Ludwig is alright—you saved him."

"Yeah!" Tears sprung to the Italian's eyes. "From you."

Carriedo frowned. "How much do you remember."

"Stop asking me that fucking question! You are sick, Carriedo, you are—you are fucking sick." Feliciano balled his fist and lurched forward, making weak contact with the man's jaw. "You're a monster, you're a child, you're a fool," he sobbed, hitting the older man as much as he could between blocks and counter jabs. "I'm leaving and I'm taking Lovino and Ludwig and—and—you can't stop us because you're a coward that makes everyone do your dirty work for you."

It wasn't true. Feliciano knew it wasn't. Carriedo was a cold-blooded killer.

"And," Feliciano added for good measure, "you're going to burn in hell for what you've done."

"Feliciano," Carriedo attempted to cajole between punches, "Feliciano, listen to me." The tanned man put up his hands, a wash-ended surrender. "You've got it all wrong. We didn't set anything up. Sure, we may have taken advantage of our opportunity, but—"

"They're telling the truth." Ludwig appeared from a back door. His face was bandaged, but he was walking, and his voice only cracked slightly. In his arms, he held canned goods. "I was jumped—not by their men, either."

Feliciano found himself swiping at his eyes, only to wince away when he opened a cut. "Ludwig you're—"

" _Ja_."

"But—But who attacked you then. And how did you guys know where to find him so quickly?" Feliciano jabbed an accusing finger between the two of them.

Bonnefoy smirked. "Thankfully for you two Ludwig's got a protective older brother."

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE**

 _Didn't think that we would be done with Gilbert, did you?_

 _Sorry it has taken so long to include the main romance sub-plot into the story. Sometimes I forget that I'm supposed to have a romance and just skip past it when I think everything out. I just am not that great at writing romance-even this can be considered excessive friendship in a hard-ass time (which, like, it totally is~)_

 **HISTORICAL NOTE**

 _N/A_


	8. Blood in the Water

_He clutched the flask between his thighs, beating his fingers against the steering wheel with one hand, violently twisting riveted chrome with his other._

* * *

The door opened to a cacophony of screaming. Feliciano ran in. His body still throbbed, and unlatching himself from Ludwig left his body cold, but Lovino was screaming at the top of his lungs. In English. He followed the narrow passage to the stairway. The screaming overcame him as Alfred flew up the steps, Lovino close behind.

Feliciano pressed himself to the wall; he backed up slowly, his chest filling with knots. The two were arguing about something Feliciano couldn't understand—but whatever it was cajoled Alfred into clasping a blade at his side. When the American's pewter blue stare caught him, he froze. Lovino howled, came forward to punch or kick, screamed another line of English after having cursed in his native tongue—but none of that stopped Alfred's cold glare from shaking Feliciano's core.

Lovino made contact. Spun the blond around with a sneer. Alfred turned to him and shouted in his face. He looked like he was about to raise the blade. Feliciano opened his mouth to cry out.

Barely were his lips ajar before Alfred had turned again and caught him by the neck. A sick crack filled the room as the small Italian was slammed against the wall; his feet dangling.

The world spun. Lovino screamed and came forward, but Carriedo had made his way into the hall and was now holding him back. Ludwig fumbled for his gun but halted suddenly when Alfred moved his hand further up Feliciano's neck—practically holding him by the chin—and shoved the blade against his jugular.

Feliciano's bleating was drowned out by a world of ringing. "Tell me where the fuck he is!" Alfred screamed. He wasn't demanding it of Feliciano, but of Lovino.

Lovino answered in English again, fighting against Carriedo.

The blade furthered its indent. Feliciano closed his eyes tight, attempting to gasp for air but too afraid to move anything. His head pounded, his back felt like it needed to be cracked in five different places, tight and compact, and as his feet dangle and kick the further away from oxygen he got the more the burns and cuts on his legs rubbed against the fabric of his pants and the wall. Scraping, burning, the bottom of his skull straining to displace itself from Feliciano's shoulder blades.

Another scream-off. His legs kicked a bit harder, hands falling limp at his sides as he wiggled. In, out. But he couldn't breathe. The knife was warming its way into his skin.

He crumpled to the floor in a ball. Alfred retreated his foot and slammed it into Feliciano's chest. The boy curled into himself, gasping, bluttering, bawling his eyes out. Someone pulled him back, Feliciano didn't know who—just that another kick didn't come as Ludwig's and Carriedo's voices joined the conversation. Of course, none of them had the decency to speak Italian.

Feliciano, as his head cleared, caught only one thing throughout the whole conversation: Biondelli. He almost wished he could remember where he had heard that name before, but his head was clouded by the pain.

Finally, Alfred was pulled away from the hallway. Lovino knelt next to Feliciano.

"Get the fuck up," he demanded.

Feliciano looked at him through rheumy eyes. "I—" he choked. Lovino just growled, grabbing him by the arm, bullying him to his feet. Feliciano groaned, grabbing his chest with a cough as he balanced himself against the wall.

He was back on the floor when Lovino slapped him across the face.

"What the fuck do you think you were doing?" Lovino screamed. He forced Feliciano to stand again. Another sharp hit to send him down. "How much do you fucking remember this time?" Falling. Head crashing against floorboards. Popcorn walls scratching. "You're a fucking idiot."

"Please," Feliciano whimpered as he was hoisted to his feet again. He attempted to look at his brother, but everything was too blurry. Pulsing through his skull was a hammer that refused to subside. "I'm sorry," lamely he continued, forgetting where he was going, what he was doing. Again, he blinked on the floor.

"You're supposed to be fucking trying but instead you're deliberately making it fucking worse!" Spittle. He raised a shaking hand to bring down another hit, but his actions were thwarted when Ludwig caught his wrist.

"Stop." The German commanded, almost yelled.

Lovino turned on him. "This is all your fucking fault! Did you not listen to me? If you fucking cared you would leave, now. Fucking Naples, fucking Italy, fucking Europe. You're humoring his fucking condition, you fuckface." Lovino pulled his hand to his side. Ludwig made to grab him when he turned back to Feliciano but paused when it was apparent that Lovino wasn't raising his palm. "You're useless, Feliciano. God damn hypocrite. Hah—as if God has anything to do with this."

Lovino stepped in close. Feliciano could barely focus. The warmth of his brother's breath on his ear, the rage that caused Lovino's fist to tremble as he jabbed his finger into Feliciano's chest, the low resignation of his voice. "You're a screw-up. I fucking hate you. Stay the fuck away from me."

And with that, he left.

Feliciano fell to the floor. He wanted to cry and to tremble; he wanted to do anything but blearily stare at the wall in front of him. He wanted his nerves to go to shit, turn themselves off and stop informing him of the battery. He wanted his brother to hug him, to tell him that they would work through whatever was happening. He wanted it to rain, to snow, to stop being so direly hot. He wanted to die.

Ludwig was at his side. Picking him up and helping him walk towards the main part of the house. Carriedo was quick to join them. The world stayed fuzzy.

"Lovino's…monster…addiction…doctor…"

Feliciano wasn't sure who was saying what. He just knew that his head throbbed. And thrummed. And made the bile at the very bottom of his stomach start a slow crawl into his chest as his throat and mouth salivated to make an easier journey for it.

Sharp acids reached his nose. Or perhaps the vomit had taken to that route as well.

Feliciano peeled himself off the floor, just to collapse as the pure force of his body flattened him.

Ludwig was there, doing something with a wet rag. Carriedo appeared though Feliciano didn't remember him leaving.

Feliciano panted, someone helped him up.

The water of the shower ignited his wounds to sizzle and char.

Sheets were pulled up to his chin. He was hot, uncomfortable, but too tired to care.

When he came-to—for the first time that he could remember doing so—he stay still with his eyes closed for a long time. He didn't want to move anything, though his eyebrows furrowed considerably. Kneading out the knots in his brain, the ones that continued to tighten, refusing to come loose no matter how many times one pinched it with bedded nails or tacky teeth.

Finally coming to the decision to wake up, he opened his eyes. He was alone. It felt almost nice to be alone, though at the same time a lion clawed at his insides. Anxiety; perhaps he had inherited that from his mother. Sighing he turned over slightly. The curtains of the room were drawn. Feliciano stare at the tattered cloth for a long while.

For being so rich Antonio Carriedo hadn't put any money into this place. Of course, Feliciano assumed that it was just one of many drug bins. They were just inhabiting it for the time being, until whatever was wanted was got.

Another bite of the lip.

Feliciano wasn't dull. Pieces were putting themselves together. He noted the continuous questions he got, he noted the way people referred to him, the way that Ludwig always looked so guarded around him, or how Lovino was never there when he was being nice.

He hugged himself, pressing himself deeper into the sheets.

His notes comprised of a million hints. People were either enthralled by him, conflicted, or scared. Lovino… Lovino was scared.

Welcome, tears.

The only thing that Feliciano didn't understand was _why_.

Carriedo treated him like a toy. Something to be used, he had gathered that much. It was him Carriedo wanted—though he kept Lovino around for some reason. Maybe to keep Roma happy. The long bits of darkness in Feliciano's mind made him uneasy. Twice now he had come-to covered in soot.

Was he some type of pyro? He always kept a lighter on himself, it was a habit when Sanchez was his main guard.

"Got a light?" Sanchez would ask, patting the bottom of his cigarette case until a fag shuffled out.

If Feliciano did have a light, the man would offer him a pleasant smile, and a time or two even extended a smoke. Feliciano frowned. He could use one right now.

Still, it didn't add up. Why would he lighting things on fire only start now? What did Carriedo have over him? Of course, what do you remember? didn't start with Carriedo. It started with Gilbert—or perhaps it started before that. Feliciano hadn't really kept track of what his brother said to him after the long period of silence. No, he had only basked in the sound and the joy.

He had ground over what Lovino had said before the three months of being ignored. Though he only remembered the important things. The _Good job_ s and _No fucking way_ s and _cool_ s. Though they were never said with much exuberance, niceties were all he needed.

They never kept away the tears, though. "Crybaby" was versatile on the tongue.

He closed his eyes again and sighed. He hurt too much to move much more than that, but even if he felt fine something told him the heaviness in his body would have been there. If he could, he would disappear into the covers. Press so tightly he would pop out of existence. Find a way to just stop thinking, feeling, crying.

It would be nice.

It was a while before anything in the room stirred. The door creaked open, the sound of heavy but trained footsteps padding across the floor. Feliciano listened. The footsteps stopped paces from the bed, and just stood there. After a long while, wondering if he had missed the sounds of the footsteps leaving—nodded off, or something else—Feliciano spoke. His voice was soft as he attempted not to scare off whoever walked in. "Please don't leave."

The silence filtered back around him. He must have been talking to himself. Figures. Maybe it was best to be alone until he figured everything out. Carriedo had said something when Feliciano was first kidnapped. Feliciano remembered being accused of something, then walking in to find Lovino and Ludwig alive. What was it that he had said?

The footsteps continued. Feliciano listened. A figment of his imagination, perhaps. A comfort to his psyche; keeping him from running himself crazy, keeping the deep-set claws from tearing deeper into his liver. It really was starting to spread, the poison of being alone in the dark; fluttering curtains just outside his eyelids, chipping paint and the smell of mold.

A weight bowed to the side of the bed. Feliciano allowed it to soothe his limbs, as they had started to tremble. Allowed it to soothe his thoughts. He imagined a figure to the weight. Black stature, but not riotous. No, it was serene. Feliciano moved just enough to press his back to it. It was warm.

He almost felt safe here. He continued to build up his friend. Strong features, strong hands, and limbs; sun-kissed; something of the smoothest skin despite the tan. He could almost feel it beneath his fingertips. In his mind, caught in an image, he imagined blond, obnoxious hair clasped by blue eyes. Soft lips. Fingertips. Wonderfully blue eyes—like the sea; a sunset rousing to start, greens and oranges mixing gallantly in the reflective orbs, a smile filling him with a warmth so pure he felt he would never be alone again.

Or perhaps it promised him that he would always be alone because he shook with sobs now.

"In, _Signore_ , out." Ludwig. His voice was croaked as if he too had been crying. Feliciano's nails dug into his shoulders.

Was Ludwig scared of him like Lovino was?

Still, sniveling through mucus discharge, Feliciano took a deep breath. The air in his lungs was stale and smelt of body odor. Feliciano almost coughed.

"Good," Ludwig said.

Feliciano turned so that he might catch a glimpse of his guard. He sat in a suit, his hands in his lap, his eyes downcast to the floor in thought. His hair was gelled back as always, though there was a slight imprecision to it.

He turned back to his place. "Ludwig," he mused quietly.

" _Ja_?"

"What time is it?"

"Just after three."

"In the morning or afternoon."

"Morning, _Signore_."

Feliciano hummed. "You can lay down."

A small shift. Uncomfortable. "I just came in to check on you. I'll go back to bed soon."

"You're still in your suit, Ludwig."

Silence.

"Ludwig?"

" _Ja_?"

"Please lay down."

"I don't think that—"

"Ludwig?"

Silence.

"Please lay down. I—I'm used to sleeping with Lovino. I can't sleep very well; alone."

It was a long while before anything happened. Feliciano was convinced he had left, even. But Ludwig stood up, shuffled around before he awkwardly lay onto the bed. Feliciano moved so that the German wasn't hanging off the side of the bed.

He was stiff, above the covers, breathing so controlled that Feliciano almost imagined him being interrogated. Nonetheless, Feliciano felt a great tension lift from his shoulders. Turning once again, the Italian pressed himself into the German's side.

It hurt his eye, mostly, as he rested his face in the stiff shoulder; but, that was okay. The ache took his mind off of Carriedo and Lovino.

Before he knew it, he fell asleep. The only reason that he knew he fell asleep was that he woke up sometime later when the German moved. Ludwig awkwardly shifted to his side, which caused Feliciano's head to nod forward and wake him up. The Italian would have gone directly back to sleep, and he was sure he was off to if the German hadn't then continued to snake his arm under the brunette's head.

It craned his neck, a bit uncomfortable if he was being honest, but the German continued to move closer until finally, he stopped. Feliciano's forehead now rested against the blond's chest, his head supported by the nook of the man's shoulder. Ludwig was still above the covers, so Feliciano couldn't cuddle into him as he would have if that wasn't the case, but tucking his arms in between the both of them he leaned into the warmth.

Maybe the heat wasn't so unbearable. It was actually nice when Ludwig's other arm wrapped around him, and when a quiet breath whispered something inaudible in his ear until he fell asleep once more.

"So, threatening to kill them actually works?" A rough voice laughed, kicking Feliciano out of his comfortable position as Ludwig jumped up.

Feliciano mumbled something and tried to blindly find the warmth that had already gotten out of the bed.

" _Bruder_. What are you—What are you doing here?"

"Don't act so surprised, Luddy," Gilbert said, a serious tone to his voice now. "You get jumped by a Biondelli gang and you don't expect me to show up?"

Feliciano groaned as he opened his eyes. Part of his vision wouldn't open fully, but he could hazily see the two Beilschmidts standing together.

"Be," Feliciano muttered, beginning to sit up. "Hi, Beilschmidt. Who's in charge in Calabria?"

"Roma sent Sanchez down for a little while," Gilbert responded. Feliciano attempted to rub the sleep from his eyes but winced away. "You look like shit." Gilbert almost tittered. Of course, Feliciano was still in some way his boss, so there was a clamp on the sheerness of the joke. "What happened."

Feliciano gave him a weak smile. "I—I don't remember all that well." He admitted. Something about a bunker—or had it been a basement? And then Lovino got in a fight with… with someone, he was sure. But Lovino got mad at him then. For, something.

"He's been through a lot," Ludwig sighed.

"You don't say." Gilbert laughed.

"Tell me, how did you know that I was jumped," Ludwig inquired as he shrugged on his suit jacket.

"You don't think I'd let you go to Naples with the Vargas hellions and not have you watched, do you?"

Feliciano furrowed his brows. "Watched?"

"Seen everything you've done since you've left. Well, my people have. Available reports whenever I need them."

Ludwig rolled his eyes. "Sure."

"Let me tell you, Luddy. You don't pick your nose enough." Gilbert lightly scolded. "I made it mandatory that they include every time you pick your nose. You know how many times you've done it since you got here?"

Ludwig, taken aback some by his brother's antics, shook his head. "What?"

"Once!" Gilbert yelled, throwing his index finger in the air as if it were the plague.

"I'm sorry, _what_?" Ludwig repeated, a hand lifting to rub his forehead. Gilbert started talking again, but Ludwig dismissed him quickly. "Please, _Bruder_ , just shut up. Why are you here? If you have men everywhere—"

"—People—"

"—then why couldn't they just tell you that I was alright?"

"Because," Gilbert whined, "I wanted to make sure for myself. Anyway, news in from Grandpa. There's… a bit of a stir going on in Germany." His tone dropped, volume as well. Feliciano strained to listen. "We might need to go up there to help out."

Ludwig took this in with an air of silence. "I really don't think that it's good for me to leave right not. There's a lot of tension between _Signores_ and Antonio—"

"Yeah, I know what shitface is up to," Gilbert ground, though it seemed that he wasn't mad about Antonio being involved, more so what he was involved with. "And I think he's an idiot. You're an idiot for helping." Ludwig opened his mouth to defend himself, but Gilbert cut him off. "But, if Grandpa needs help then I expect you to come with me. Loyalty, Ludwig. You still have a lot to prove before anyone takes you seriously."

"I don't—"

"As if. You got jumped in an alley, Lud. Who gets jumped in alleyways when they should be smart enough to know not to even be in one? Especially not another turf's alley without a group! An inexperienced _dummkopf_ is who." Gilbert offered Feliciano a quaint nod, turning towards the door. "You've got a lot to learn. Street smarts and all. Now come on out; I think Alfred is getting antsy." He left without another word. Ludwig started to leave but hesitated.

"Do…" he spoke in a whisper as if on his words were an important secret between just him and Feliciano. "Are you alright if I go?"

 _Si_ , that was the answer on the boy's lips—the answer that reached the air, despite something within the Italian knotting and spinning. The pit of his tummy stirred when the door was opened, dropped when it was closed. Laying back in the silence Feliciano stared up at the ceiling, frowning.

Half of him wanted to go back to sleep, his aches and pains somehow tied to the core of the Earth, slowly being reeled in and pulling the teen further and further down; but the rest of him wanted to follow Ludwig or Gilbert. Wanted to talk to Lovino; go work at the Casino. The rest of him trembled with the anticipation of once again boiling in silence, brooding in his head without answers—or maybe without the right questions.

Sleep won out.

The world was drifting in quiet murmurs when he came-to once more. Ludwig's room was an extension of the main living area, shut off by a door and no more than a three-foot hall. When the door was open anything happening in the main room could be heard. Feliciano noticed that the door was cracked. Ludwig had probably come in when they had gotten back, or someone had decided to check on him. He didn't know. All he knew was that his stomach growled viciously. He worked to stand, padding across the room with stiff limbs.

"No!" A sudden barrage of temper spread just as Feliciano reached the door. He hesitated with his hand on the nob. "I do it. Do not look at me like that. I do it. Your fucking dog doesn't even come along."

Feliciano retreated, the voice Alfred's and angry and filling him with a new sort of trepidation. There was a response, but it was quiet. All Feliciano knew was that it couldn't be good. Something hard hit the floor, and by the sounds of it, it shattered. "This man fucking killed my brother." Alfred roared. There was a tussle, dull thuds, heavy footsteps, dancing around in a modern waltz. "He gets nothing to do with this. This is my God damn mission. My wife and—" the American's voice broke, sobbed. " _Samantha_. You bring him and I fucking kill him on the spot—then I kill him now!"

The door burst open. Feliciano fell backward, hitting the ground. He was at the crazed man's mercy here. Staring into cold, gyrating eyes; pivoting with insanity.

Ludwig was on him in a moment, followed by Gilbert, pinning the American against the far wall just beside the window. Gilbert knocked the American's gun to the floor. "Leave him alone!" The albino screamed. "This isn't our decision!"

"Like hell it's not," Alfred struggled. He strained against the Germans, bringing his shoulders off the wall one at a time, just for his effort to be thwarted and his body to be fully pinned again. "You have some fucking vendetta against—"

"Not everything is about you," Ludwig growled. "And if Roma didn't command it, it wouldn't be happening. Look at him!" Feliciano was pinned in his place by the pinned man's cold glare. If only the ropes had succeeded. Ludwig followed up his statement with a line of English.

Alfred erupted in a malicious laugh. Crazed, no longer fighting against the pin, eyes widened with pure, fanatical euphoria. "Go on!" He pitched. "Tell him then!" With a wide grin, Alfred addressed the small Italian. "Feliciano! You're a—"

He was cut off when Ludwig punched him in the mouth.

"Feli," Gilbert ground. "Go out."

The Italian took the offer. He scuttled to his feet, legs kicking wide and arms trying to do anything but give out in the rush.

"That's right!" Alfred howled. "Run away! Keep that up. It's really working—"

The dull, sickly th-wat indicated that he had been punched again. Feliciano closed the door behind himself, attempting to wipe the moisture from his face with his sleeve.

He grabbed at his shoulders as he walked. What was he? What was he? What was he? He keeled over, wanting to vomit, but the churning in his stomach told him there was nothing to get rid of. How long had he been asleep? He ate at the bunker. When had he dismissed the canned fruits and beans that Ludwig had handed him?

Stars met his vision when oxygen failed to meet his brain. He couldn't breathe. Only dance through the motions.

What was he? What was he?

He fell to the ground, mouth opening and closing, a fish out of water. Out of air. Vacuum. Hugging bare arms, trembling against the hardwood, back pressed against a wall.

A figure.

Dark clad and blue.

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE**

 _I've thought it over and have decided to publish a 'sequel' to this fic. It will be Lovino's POV. There's just… so much Feliciano doesn't see, doesn't know, and I think it would be fun to play with the more aggressive Italian. It won't be published at all until this fic is DONE, seeing as it contains **major** spoilers for this plot. Like, chapter one spoils a good deal of the climax hehe._

 **HISTORICAL NOTES**

 _Okay, so this is more a fun fact, but 'Ndrangheta (the mafia that the Vargas family is more based on) actually used storage bins to create underground bunkers in Calabria. Because our characters are in Naples right now (where, as far as I know, there aren't any) I can't call this a historical fact; but I wanted to nod at the whole bunker thing because it's impressive and all. Like, they have tunnels all over the gosh-dang town. From one house to house, rooms for hiding out, etc etc. We may explore Calabria's bunkers later, but as far as my current outline has it doesn't look likely. Feli is a ticking time bomb and we still have Ivan and Kiku to introduce._

 _That's all I have for you. Until we meet again_

 _Ciaoo_


	9. War of Change

_"—spitting fucking image!"_

 _"Calm down. Love has nothing to do with looks."_

 _"Don't you fucking dare lie to me and tell me that you fucking believe that."_

* * *

"He's a fucking mess!" Ludwig defended. Gilbert rolled his eyes, shoving his hands into his back pockets.

"Yeah, that's what's happening here." The albino smirked. "I'll leave you alone."

Ludwig had been the one to help Feliciano. He instructed him how to breathe, murmured something or another about holding on, scooped the Italian off the floor—gracelessly putting him on his feet. Feliciano had stared and cried, asking "What am I, Ludwig? Please, there's something that you guys aren't—there's something that I don't know. Please, Ludwig."

Unfortunately, Ludwig never answered him. He just looked at the floor, reminding him how to breathe. Feliciano broke down again, sobbing into the German and demanding answers. He had grown up in the mafia. He knew the trigger words, what to threaten, but of course, threats fall flat when one is acting like a child and pounding their fists against their assailant's chest half-heartedly.

He must have started having a panic attack. He remembers feeling dizzy, black splotches clouding his vision, and the German's hands being the only thing to keep him from hitting the floor once more. "Fuck!" He remembered Ludwig growling. "Stay up—come on, Feliciano, stay with me. In and out, in and out."

Feliciano then recalled being dragged down something dark, being picked up—weightless with a great pain in his stomach as if someone was balancing him on their shoulder, and the opening of a door. There was the running of water as he was placed against something ceramic and cool. "In, out. Keep it slow. Feliciano," Ludwig would stop, cup his face, instruct, and then go back to what he was doing.

Finally, Ludwig had picked him up—just to set him down again. The world froze. His muscles contracted, his shoulders stopped trembling, and his chest pressed down violently as his whole body tensed. He gasped.

Ludwig gently guided Feliciano's head with his hand, easing the Italian deeper into the freezing water. Feliciano allowed him to. Soon water lapped his forehead and the world sounded like a murmur of itself. Feliciano closed his eyes; he focused on his breathing and on Ludwig's warm fingers as they combed his hair.

Gilbert had come in about then, just as Feliciano was relaxing. He was gone as soon as he had appeared, though. Feliciano was almost thankful for that. Ludwig and the cold and in and out and how his clothes ballooned around his aching limbs and how the fire of his burns subsided-if only for a moment-was all he needed.

Ludwig helped him sit up a little later. He looked tired, the deep bags under his eyes creasing with a slight smile. "Feel better?"

Feliciano nodded. He still had tens of millions of questions. Yet, in that moment his head was silent. The toxins had subsided. He offered the German a smile of his own. "Thank you, Ludwig." He cried, though no tears ran. Ludwig grunted when the Italian reached out, soaking, and wrapped him into a hug. "Thank you," he repeated, quieter.

Ludwig just hugged him back.

The moist heat that escaped when Feliciano pulled away was almost enough to convince him to start another long embrace; his arms, though they still ache, were stretched and comfortable at the biceps. He was sure Ludwig had had enough of his pathetic squeezing. The German stood, helping Feliciano out of the tub.

"I really hope none of Carriedo's men are here," Feliciano giggled. He was tired, almost ready to collapse against the strong body that still held his shoulders. He rested his forehead on the other's chest. Slowly, his red arms had started regaining color as his own body temperature fought off the cloud of ice caused by the bath.

Ludwig hummed, furrowing a brow.

Feliciano, by way of demonstration, referred to himself with a wide motion. "I look like I just came in from the rain. At least I don't have to worry about dry cleaning these…"

Ludwig shook his head, a small smile on his lips. "Let's get you some clothes," he sighed.

"Did they ever give you your suitcase back? I never got mine," Feliciano whined as they walked. He sent a longing glance at Lovino's closed door as they came to the stairs. Something within him decided against it. Lovino was probably still calming down. Once Lovino was able to be up and around, Feliciano thought, he would be less frustrated. The soaking Italian was positive that inactivity was his brother's dilemma.

"No, I never got mine back. I'm not even sure that they kept them."

So Feliciano was dressed in some of Gilbert's clothes. The albino was taller than him, but not by much. Feliciano tucked the white shirt into loose-fitting pants before securing everything with a black, simple belt. It felt good to be in clean clothes (that didn't smell like smoke), he decided.

Gilbert grinned at him. "What'd I tell ya? Perfect fit. You really shouldn't doubt my judgement, Lud."

Ludwig rolled his eyes. "Talk to Antonio about getting our stuff back. I'm tired of living out of suits he provides."

"Oh, Toni is just trying to be nice. Think about how much those things cost!"

"They're uncomfortable."

"Beauty is pain, little brother." Feliciano laughed. Gilbert sent him a wink—to which Ludwig frowned at him for. "Feli knows what's up."

"Take some advice from Beils—erm, Gilbert," Feliciano said, shrugging his shoulders. "I like the suits!"

"You're Italian—not to mention that you probably grew up in them."

Feliciano bit the inside of his cheek. "The—The better part of my teenage years, yeah. I guess you're right. Is there anything to eat?" Feliciano sent the blond a wide smile. "Can you cook me something?"

"I—I don't think—nothing in the kitchen," Ludwig staggered, clearing his throat with a huff. "I'm not sure the kitchen has anything you want to eat. Nothing to cook. _Bruder_ , get on that too, _ja_?"

Gilbert waved him off. "Just have Rizzuto get you something."

He referred to a man that was currently doing a list of paperwork in the kitchen. The man's head was balding, but he still held the utmost air of respect. Feliciano had never talked to him; he only admired parts of him from afar. Mostly his math skills when the man would get up and Feliciano would glance at what he was doing. It was almost as if he were writing in a totally different language, coming up with sums and divisions Feliciano had to shake off. Those at the Casino were lucky that Rizzuto didn't play.

"I—I'm not sure that's such a good idea," Feliciano said, his internal intimidation coming out as a rushed giggle.

Gilbert shrugged. "Then wait an hour until we leave."

"Leave?"

Ludwig retracted a bit, putting his weight on the foot furthest from Feliciano. It wasn't big. Probably didn't even mean anything. Still, Feliciano watched.

" _Ja_ ," Gilbert said. "We're going after Biondelli."

* * *

Feliciano grabbed at Ludwig's hand, gently tugging him backward. The car was waiting. "I really don't want to go," Feliciano whispered.

"I know, _Signore_ ," Ludwig sighed. "But…it's not our decision."

"Tell _Nonno_ to fuck off!" Feliciano demanded. "Give me a phone and I'll do it! But I—can't, Ludwig. Please, just stay."

"I'm not staying if you're going."

"Well, I'm not going!" He decided. " _Ludwig_ , please!"

"If it were up to me you wouldn't! But it's not."

"But—But, Ludwig!" He wailed.

Ludwig wrapped him into a hug. His breath was hot on the Italian's ear. Feliciano could practically hear the "In, out," that had become accustomed to these embraces. "Just stick with me, okay? Remember to listen to me, and nothing bad will happen." A small squeeze. Feliciano shook his head. "You have to be a soldier. Pretend this is the military. You can't say no to orders there."

"He's feared here, he's feared all over Europe, America. What makes them think that they can take him out?" Feliciano cried, crossing his arms over his chest in an X, pressing himself against the German. Ludwig didn't answer, just tightened his embrace for a final time before pulling away.

"Just stick with me. I'm your guard, _Signore_ ; my life belongs to you."

The thought of Ludwig dying—for him—wrapped a hot iron around Feliciano's gut. He did what the German said, silently decreeing (by way of action) then and there that he would 'soldier' through it. He would protect Ludwig. Because he was positive that, whether he wiggled himself out of it or not, Ludwig would go if he were ordered.

Feliciano knew that his decision was rash. There was no way he could protect Ludwig without going against his morals. He would screw up—hesitate and get them both killed. He could feel the creeping fire of wrongness filling his chest. Something that started as an invisible thought, started as nothing but a shiver or an underlying question, but would soon sear and make him want to physically stop and shake his head and disappear.

Still, as they walked out of the house, as they piled into the car, Feliciano balled his fists, ready to overcome the feat. He was no hero. But for Ludwig? For his only friend? He couldn't let him get hurt. In, out. Alfred was driving, his knuckles pallid against the wheel. Gilbert was in shotgun, directing him broadly. Carriedo sat beside Feliciano, encouraging him with a smile as he pressed a gun into the boy's hand.

"You might need this."

Feliciano nodded, making sure the safety was on and securing it in the waist of his pants. He might. He prayed that he wouldn't.

Letting his chin drop to his chest, he mouthed a long prayer, keeping it between him and the Lord. For a moment he even caught himself speaking to his mother but quickly reverted his attention back. His mother would be watching, he knew that. She promised that she would always watch. He trusted her guidance. His mission now was to persuade the Lord to give him guidance, as well. Maybe even a little bit of luck.

Biondelli wasn't a force to be reckoned with. The only one at ease was Gilbert—and Feliciano knew that even he worried, despite his calm demeanor. Biondelli was an Italian who killed to kill. He didn't care about bystanders. Or boundaries. Or even the consequences of his actions when it came to the safety of his own men. He only wanted one thing: power.

He was a dictator who didn't deal with the niceties of politics.

The boy's eyebrows twisted; his lips attempted to tremble. Tender flesh met dentine.

He hadn't realized he had done it until it was over. Well, until it was still happening, but too late to stop. His balled fist, as he concentrated on a strong face, reached out to Ludwig's. He had scooped it up, wrapping the German's hand tightly in his own, pressing down into the skin just enough to make an indent. The German's thumb rubbed gentle circles into his skin. Reassuring.

No, he would not let Ludwig get hurt.

There was a warmth within him that erupted. It was similar to how he felt when Lovino said something nice to him. Like he could conquer the world. Like he could walk a street or a beach and not have to consciously map out where his pistol lie. Like the could close his eyes and not have to worry about waking up alone.

It almost scared him, the way that this German made him feel. Because though he could pinpoint how brotherly and friendly it was, there was something else. Something that electrified the veins Ludwig caressed. It sent black tar into his body, his muscles, his heart. It solidified his belly and caused his prayer to stutter. Feliciano bit down harder on his lip. He needed to focus.

How was one supposed to focus when a fire continuously beaconed for their attention? Small circles. A swipe. Following the length of the Italian's thumb. He couldn't breathe. His heart stammered, his body threatened to shiver. Should he pull his hand away? Yes; then why were his finger's tightening? The bows of his nails nipping at the blond's skin. Feliciano opened his eyes, casting a glance at his friend.

Ludwig stare outside the window. A reenactment of the train so long ago. Except there was something different. His chin was balanced on his palm, his elbow against the door's frame, and it looked like he was staring at the road. His eyes moved back and forth, indicating that he stare outwards; didn't focus on the reflection of the glass or the window seal. He was alert. Poised for action. Yet, Feliciano sensed there was something more. Something that he couldn't pin about the German.

Confliction.

Feliciano wondered if the German would answer him if he spoke. Asked a question he had no right to ask. Would Feliciano sing to him again if he didn't? Would he be shaken awake by a drowning Lovino? Or would it be Ludwig's eyes that stirred him to sanity? He contemplated whether or not he should try. If only to see.

Ludwig sent him a glance at that moment. Innovation broke into the situation. The train didn't rumble, Feliciano didn't count the seconds, and his head couldn't fathom anything but the German and his touch. His touch, not his past. Not the military, not escaping. Ludwig held his stare, his movements on the boy's hand ceasing with a gentle "In, out," forming on his lips.

Feliciano had been breathing fine up until he was forced into eye contact. He really had. Now the subtle movement of lips didn't help his situation.

Ludwig tightened his grip, attempting to break him out of his trance. But he wasn't in a trance! He was just staring. Blue eyes, soft lips, the dancing of a single silver strand in the moonlight. Laced fingers, fire. Fire. Fire.

Finally, he looked away. His stomach knotted and twisted. A sadistic quenching of his body that caused him to shiver as he stared into his lap.

"Get ready," Gilbert muttered, sitting up straight and playing with the console. He pulled out a 9mm, shoving it into his boot, before pulling out a set of keys and shoving those in his pocket. The trunk then. People moving around caused Ludwig to drop Feliciano's hand.

"How far are we walking?" Ludwig inquired, checking over his gun to make sure there was around in the chamber.

"About six blocks," Gilbert said.

"That close? It's only just getting dark. Maybe we should shoot for a little longer."

Gilbert shook his head. "No. I'm sure they know that we're coming, Lud. I wouldn't be surprised if they set Francis up with the information."

"So he might not even be here?"

The albino shrugged his shoulders, half-heartedly. "Could be a trap," he confirmed. "But Francis could be right."

"So," Ludwig continued, his eyebrow twitching just barely, "we're putting our lives on the line on the off chance that _a French gambler wasn't lying_?"

"Whether he's right or wrong he's not lying." Gilbert snapped. "Just keep your eyes out and you won't have to worry about anything."

"No," Ludwig's tone was becoming hostile. "There is a lot to worry about. Snipers, for one. Do you not remember being one yourself?"

"Luddy," a warning. "Just follow orders. We're not walking into this blind."

"It sounds like you are!"

"Stop. Bickering." Alfred growled. Feliciano contrasted this man mentally to the one he had met in a stupid Hawaiian shirt and khakis. The bright smile, bubbled laugh. He was hardly recognizable. His shoulders hunched over the wheel, shaking in the slightest—out of anger, or out of fear, was impossible to tell—and his movements were jerky; he kept his vision forward, and though Feliciano could only see the back of his head he could imagine a deep scowl on his features. Much like the one he had attacked Lovino with.

He found himself wondering whether or not he had attained any bruises or cuts from being punched; only, he couldn't recall Lovino punching him.

Who had?

Feliciano drowned out Gilbert snapping at the American, drowned out Carriedo cooing something to the Germans, and just sunk into his head. Someone had punched Alfred. But who, and why? He closed his eyes and tried to picture it. Tried to picture their laughing charades. That was easy. His heart lifted, and though he wanted to smile his eyebrows furrowed and he suddenly wanted to cry. He liked the American. He liked him a lot. His smile, the knocking on air, the silliness. Even if he had turned out to be a part of the mafia. Even if it was him that had initially kidnapped Feliciano. He had been kind to him. Talked to him in the bunker. Offered him small smiles and told Arthur to shut up when the British guy was calling him names.

"Feliciano?" Carriedo asked.

Ludwig put a hand on his shoulder.

Feliciano shook his head, desperate. Alfred was kind. His smiles and his actions when he wasn't angry or stressed were friendly, his boisterous attitude in the bunker and the way he sighed when he was bored and—and he had been assaulted by someone, but Feliciano couldn't remember how or why. Nevertheless, something tore his floating heart out of the air and left it to sink and die because he felt that somehow it was his fault. Had he punched the American? Why couldn't he remember?

"In and out."

Feliciano shook off the German's hand. "Stop!" He screamed. He didn't need to breathe. "Just—stop! Why the fuck can't I remember?" he demanded.

The movements of his company stopped. Only the soft trotting of the wheels and Alfred's shoulders continued to tremble.

"I—I," Feliciano stammered, opening his eyes wide to stare at the German. "I can't remember." His voice had dropped to a whisper. "But I know that something happened. I know because I can feel that it did."

"That what did?" Ludwig asked carefully.

"I—" he shot a look at the American. Leaning closer to the German he hissed: "he got hurt. Punched, I think. But—But I don't—"

Ludwig seemed relieved. About what? He nodded and sighed. "He did."

"By who?"

"How much do you remember?"

"Don't," Feliciano hissed, "ask me that. Just tell me by who."

Ludwig took a long second to respond, mulling over the answer in his head. "Me." He finally decided.

"Why?"

"What do you want me to tell you?"

"The truth!" Feliciano shrieked. "Why did you fucking attack him?"

"Feli," Carriedo said quietly, attempting to calm the Italian down. He had placed a hushed hand on the boy's elbow. Feliciano had moved to punch Ludwig? Calming, Feliciano gave Carriedo a small nod, a thanks. Turning back to Ludwig he repeated his request.

"Because he attacked you," Ludwig was out of sorts. The confliction from earlier followed the Italian's lowering fist. It traced his features with stone as if etching this version into Ludwig's memory.

"What? No he didn't!"

"How much of this afternoon do you remember?"

"What?" Feliciano demanded.

"How much do you remember."

"I-!" Feliciano slammed his fists into his thighs, biting his lip. Copper. "I don't fucking know! I remember you, and Gilbert, but I didn't fucking see Alfred today!" He cried. "I—I remember—I remember you, Ludwig, but not Alfred. I don't remember Al," he swallowed.

"Breathe. In, out."

Feliciano shook his head. "I don't want to. I don't. I just want to remember."

"Then lower your stress. Breathe properly," Ludwig ordered. "If you want to remember then you have to calm down."

"That makes no sense! I've been calm, and yet I still can't—"

"Listen!" Ludwig grabbed his chin, making him look at him. "I don't know if you'll ever regain your memories," was he talking about being attacked by Alfred? "but if you want to retain your memories of this conversation, then _calm down_."

Feliciano blinked, tears streaking down his chin. "What do you mean?" he whispered.

Ludwig sighed, cast his gaze down, shook his head. "I mean that you need to breathe." He finally responded. "Just stay calm. Okay?"

"Hate to break you two up," Gilbert interrupted, "but get ready. Park right here, Al."

Gilbert dragged Ludwig to the side when they got out. He hissed something quietly, his red stare glaring into the German's features. Alfred sent Feliciano a glance—which Feliciano assumed wasn't supposed to be caught, because when they met eyes the American looked away, shoving his hands into his pocket and turning his back to him.

"Feli," Carriedo said from behind him. Feliciano offered him a small smile.

" _Si_?" He muttered.

"Just—" the Italian Boss took a moment, putting together what he wanted to say. "Listen, I promised your brother I would protect you in this, and I want you to disregard what Ludwig is saying." There was something written across his features. It was almost as if he hated himself for saying anything.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," he scratched the back of his head. "I mean that I didn't want you to come. Your grandfather was insistent, though. I tried to tell him that you haven't made any progress and send you back—"

"What?" Feliciano asked, bewildered. "Lovino and I can leave?"

"I—I don't have a say in it, Feli." He sighed. "Roma…he's got his motives for wanting you here. And so do I. But I promised Lovi—" why did he keep mentioning his brother? "—that I would do what I could to keep you…safe. So, don't put too much on what Ludwig said." He smiled. "Just do it like you always have. Then neither of us will get in trouble."

Feliciano just stared. Carriedo wasn't to be trusted. The feeling in his gut reinforced this thought. The smile on his face was almost dark, the gleam in his eyes playful. As if he were planning something. As if he didn't want Feliciano to remember what was going to happen.

Feliciano nodded, chirping a quaint, "okay! Glad Lovino's talking to _someone_!" Before turning just as Gilbert started towards the trunk. Feliciano walked over to Ludwig, grabbing his fist to keep his arms from trembling.

"What's wrong?" Ludwig asked.

Feliciano sent him a huge smile—the one he still had on from his conversation with Carriedo. It twitched, flashing teeth that gnarled. "Ludwig, I'll do whatever you say."

The German looked concerned. He seemed like he was about to ask but ultimately decided against it with a curt nod. "Good."

"Come on, you guys." Gilbert barked. "Hurry up; we don't have all day!" He emphasized his point by slamming the trunk. He balanced artillery on his hip, Carriedo took a rifle and Alfred, following suit, took a gun of his own. Ludwig took an Ak-67 from him. Gilbert outstretched one to Feliciano.

"No thank you," Feliciano muttered quickly. "I—I have a pistol."

Gilbert frowned. "Yeah, we all do. Only one? Just take the gun, Feli."

"I—I—"

"Don't make him," Carriedo said, taking the outstretched weapon and slinging it onto his back. "If he needs it I'll give it to him. Here, Feli, take these." He handed the Italian a sack. Feliciano didn't need to open it to know what its contents were.

"Grenades? Do we really need these?"

"Let's get going." Something had ticked Gilbert off. He was no longer pretending to be uninterested. Looking both ways, he scurried across the road, his knees bent slightly. Alfred was the first to follow. Soon it was the American leading them.

Ludwig watched the houses they passed. He looked to be peering into windows. Feliciano stuck close to him as they ran. Anytime a flash of movement caught his eyes he would have to force himself just to stay calm. It didn't help that the running caused his heart rate to rise so drastically, and breathing correctly wasn't really an option. He wanted to think about what Ludwig had meant but couldn't risk it. If his brain was working, his steps were slowing down. He wanted to stop. Not because the run was partially draining, though it did cause his hurt legs to quiver, it was just that his body demanded that he stop.

He listened to Ludwig, though, when he was told to hurry up. Cautious with the bag strapped to his belt, Feliciano attempted to watch his steps as he sped up. His boots felt heavy, still scorched, as they padded across the seat. A motorbike passed, Gilbert hissed for the group to stop in an ally.

"What is it?" Feliciano panted.

"There are guys up there," Gilbert said, distracted by his gun. "They're watching."

"So you think he's here?" Carriedo asked.

"No doubt about it." Alfred smiled. "Costello's here."

Feliciano peered over to where Alfred was pointing. Five men stood in front of an entrance. Feliciano caught the white-haired mobster immediately. He knew him, his grandfather had gone up in arms against one of the underboss's crews a few years back. He had gained weight since then.

Feliciano found himself chewing on his thumb nail with thought. "Maybe he's a distraction?" Feliciano muttered.

"Don't think so," Alfred said. "Get your bombs ready."

Feliciano nodded, grabbing for the bag and pulling out one of the explosives. It was familiar in his hand, a comfortable weight.

"Maybe," Ludwig put a hand on Feliciano's wrist, wordlessly telling him to put it back, "we skip the bombs."

Feliciano furrowed his brows. "Why? It would be easier, Lud."

Ludwig's grip tightened. Feliciano hissed in pain, shooting a glance at the hand, opening his mouth to reprimand his guard, before he looked up and caught Ludwig's glare. In the darkness, his eyes were indigo, dangerous. Something shot through Feliciano, scarring him.

Why was the weight of the bomb so familiar? He'd never held one before. Well, except when Roma had been teaching him about them, but that had to have been five years ago. Maybe more?

"I—I—" Feliciano stuttered.

"The bomb isn't for Biondelli, just for his men outside," Alfred said. "Biondelli is mine."

"But the second he hears a blast he's going to run," Ludwig tried to rationalize. "We can't risk that. Not to mention the fact that you can't control these things like gunfire. No use getting bystanders in the way"

"Ludwig is right," Carriedo said. "The blast could end up accidentally killing Biondelli, anyway."

Alfred grumbled something back, taking a pistol from his jacket, checking to make sure it was ready, before putting it away and hoisting his rifle into position. "Fine," he finally gave. "Let's move."

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTES**

 _Okay, so it was either I offer you guys a long chapter or I cut it in two. Seeing as this chapter is already a couple hundred over the usual length, I decided to cut it. The next chapter is all action, don't worry ? ALSO: Ivan and Kiku should be being introduced soon (Ivan sooner than later), so be looking forward to that. We had to get all the niceties out of the way._

 **HISTORICAL NOTES**

 _But doesn't this chapter make the mafia sound too much like some professional military or something? No one uses grenades or has snipers. That's just fiction!_

 _My friend, I love you, but you're wrong._

 _A man from an American crime family (*insert name when I find it again*) told his story about setting up a hand grenade in an enemy's car and rigging it to explode the moment the driver's door was opened. He shared the little fact that the car had been parked close to an elementary school, even, saying that he waited up listening for the explosive because if it didn't go off he was going to go and unarm it before kids started by the area for school in the morning. Spoiler alert, he didn't have to unarm it._

 _Also, si, mon ami, there're snipers in the mafia. Media doesn't call it 'war' when they're fighting for nothing._

 _Until we meet again_

 _B'AH (Obnoxious American)_


	10. I Apologize

_"So what if he remembers-"_

 _"You-You weren't fucking-you haven't-you haven't seen the aftermath!"_

* * *

Feliciano put the grenade back where it belonged. Ludwig hovered over his hand for a long moment longer.

"Be, Ludwig," Feliciano mumbled. "I think that—"

"Stay close to me, _Signore_ ," he interrupted. "If you get scared, find me. Immediately. And… Feliciano—"

Feliciano chewed on his cheek. He liked it when Ludwig called him by his name, but not like that.

"—stay scared. If…don't get comfortable. Please."

Feliciano agreed though he wasn't sure what the German meant. Ludwig offered him a silent smile then. Deciding that the two were done conversing, Gilbert motioned for everyone to start. They weren't running anymore. No, this close they walked. Gilbert swung his gun with his arm. An intimidation tactic, looking so bored. Feliciano played along, fishing his gun from his waist.

"Hey, dudes!" Alfred yelled happily. He put up his hand, sending the confused men a friendly wave.

That was when the first shot exploded into the air. It felt so close, yet the shooter was invisible. Feliciano focused on his breathing. His fingers trembled as he played with his gun between his hands.

Light erupted as Alfred open-fired. Gilbert joined, too. The sound was impossible to drown out, ricocheting in the night, screaming in his head. A hand. "In, out." Of course, he should focus. The hand suddenly pulled him backward.

The sniper had shot again. A single bullet lodged itself into the pavement. Ludwig turned to where he had caught him—top floor of the parallel house—and shot like a madman. Feliciano sunk away, his gun clattering to the ground as his world descended into a bleating hell. Where people no longer walked, talked, sang, or danced; but instead, they bowed and they kept their mouths slammed shut because if even a smile twisted on their lips they would be oppressed by those greedy enough to take a life. A knife. A life.

Ludwig was so close to his face Feliciano's heart jumped from his chest.

" _Signore_ ," his lips moved, but still there was nothing but silence. Feliciano stared. Ludwig had grabbed him by his shoulders and shook. Finally, words pierced blasts. His ears rung. "Signore, breath!" Feliciano made his attempt, nodding and shaking with the German's movements. Ludwig was hesitant as he called out for him once more. There was a slight fear in his words. Were there more shooters? "Feliciano, are you okay to continue?"

Feliciano stared, to busy keeping his breathing under control. In, out, his mind kept playing. A tune stuck in his head.

Surely, he wouldn't screw up this quickly. Surely, they wouldn't die yet. He nodded. "I—I think so, Ludwig."

Relief flooded the German's facial features. "Good," he finally muttered. He almost looked like he could smile. Why was he so happy?

They continued after that. Gilbert and Alfred had gotten to the house already. Carriedo hung back, watching. Something of a scowl settled on his features. Feliciano bent over to grab his gun but found that he already had it.

Hadn't he dropped it?

Being pressed for time, the Italian followed his German companion. The house was dismal. A dreary darkness fell over the door, and the whole world creaked as they walked. Alfred ran in from another room. "Check downstairs," he yelled.

"On it!" Gilbert responded.

"Come on," Carriedo, "let's check with him. Ludwig, stay with Alfred."

"No," Ludwig said.

Feliciano pressed his back into the German when Carriedo tried to grab his arm. "We'll stay upstairs. You go."

"I'm not asking, Feliciano." Carriedo ground. "Come with me."

Feliciano shook his head. "Ludwig will protect me. I—Lovino asked that I be—and I don't—and—"

Screams erupted down the hall. Alfred was yelling something or another; gunfire. Feliciano was quick to tear away from their conversation. Erupting into the next room Feliciano almost ran into Alfred. The American grasped a bloody shoulder, hissing with pain as he stumbled. He held his gun up with his hurt arm, pressing the trigger and sending a hail of bullets.

The kick was too much. His shoulder, now both shot and thrown, spasmed backward, almost catching Feliciano in the nose. His gun clattered to the ground; he followed it.

Feliciano couldn't see who had shot. The room was dark, separated from the closest room by a large wall. Whoever had shot Alfred had taken cover, hid out until someone came by. Feliciano wondered if he had even bothered to look before he shot. Just another man paid to kill, or was there personal vendetta? Whatever it was sent a tremor of antagonism through the brunette. Whoever stood behind the wall shot to kill yet didn't face his opponent properly. There was a word for that. Coward.

The Italian scowled.

" _Hiding_?" He demanded, bending down and picking up Alfred's gun. "Have you never learned of fighting etiquette," poised to shoot, "you slimy _bastard_."

Feliciano turned the corner. His body shook, with anger for his friend, fear for his enemy. This man shot to kill. This man shot. This man killed.

The bullets that had found their way through the wall lodged themselves into a limp body. Feliciano 'tch'ed. "What a shame."

Ludwig was behind him. The blond grabbed his forearm. " _Signore_ ," he growled.

Feliciano looked up at him. Something was infuriating the way the blond looked so god damn angry.

"What?" Feliciano snapped.

"Breathe."

"I'm breathing fine." Feliciano scowled at him.

Why was he so irritated? By Ludwig, his friend? Ludwig put a hand over the American's gun, gently prying it out of Feliciano's hand. "Just…try it." He muttered slowly; cautious as he relinquished the weapon.

"Leave it be, Ludwig!" Carriedo almost chuckled.

Carriedo wasn't to be trusted. A sick feeling caught Feliciano by the tail. Determined, he looked up at Ludwig. In, out. He followed orders.

"Are you ready to continue?"

" _Si_."

"Try it again."

"Try what again?"

"Breathing."

"Why!"

"Please." It was so pitiful that Feliciano almost kicked him. Giving he tried again. "Close your eyes," Ludwig asked slowly. The Italian didn't protest. In place of the gun, something was pressed into Feliciano's hand. It was small, dull. He knew the feeling well: a cross. "Another breath." Feliciano nodded.

The irritation sunk to guilt, as it always did. It was no different from the day on the ferry when he cursed Lovino's name, snapped at Gilbert, punched Arthur.

Wait.

Ludwig cupped his face. Feliciano opened his eyes, meeting a blue haze. "Are you ready to continue?" He asked.

"I—I," he shook his head. He had been so mean, and yet Ludwig still stood above him. The cross dug into his palm as he brought it up. He thanked the lord for offering him this. He nodded gently into Ludwig's hand. "I—I'm ready." He agreed. He would protect whatever this gift this was. This angel that could so easily stare into him; this figure that was so patient. Even if his gut curled, even if he wanted to find the Lovino within himself and berede Carriedo for giving him such a disappointed glare, he would stick with Ludwig. His friend.

Ludwig's features softened. "Alright. Good."

Feliciano offered him a smile. "Thank you," he whispered. Ludwig just nodded. Feliciano offered him his cross.

"You keep that; I got it for you," he refused.

Feliciano opened his palm, peering at it through the darkness. A strange inscription run up the side of the t: _Bleib fest_. Feliciano frowned, running over the small letters with his thumb. It was a beautiful cross, simplistic, heavy. He had to bite his lip to keep them from trembling.

Ludwig left him, attempting to help Alfred. "No," Alfred pushed him away. There was a craze in his face that Feliciano had never seen before. "I can get up on my own."

"You're bleeding profoundly," Ludwig attempted to coax. "At least let me wrap it."

Alfred stood, using his good hand to scoot up the wall. "No," he ground, grinding his teeth, in pain. "I can continue, damn it." He grabbed his gun from Ludwig, harsh. "Stop standing around. We have to find him." He bit back what Feliciano could only imagine being a wince as he started walking. Carriedo helped him, slinging an arm around the American's waist.

"I'll check the rest of upstairs!" Feliciano offered. He clutched his pistol and one hand and his cross in the other. "You guys go ahead downstairs."

Alfred shot him a glare. "Don't act dim," he spat. "I'm not letting you out of my sight." Pushing Carriedo away Alfred staggered to the Italian. His bad arm fell limp. Blood, copper, drip drip. Another dart in the wood. A stream of blood, but on the skin, not on the black jacket. Running, further climbing down, threatening to snitch.

Feliciano blinked, shaking his head. "Oh—that's fine with me. Let's just hurry." Feliciano moved to support Alfred. He was used to staying persistent as one pushed him away, so when Alfred attempted he skillfully kept him up. "Where to?" he asked.

"I—" he frowned. "Just to the back. Let's see if anyone's in the yard."

Feliciano nodded. Together the two of them left. Feliciano hadn't noticed that Ludwig didn't follow them until he was struggling to open the door.

"Lud—" he looked behind himself. Ludwig must have gone to go help his brother. "I can't open it, Al," Feliciano admitted.

"Hold this," Alfred instructed, shoving his gun into the Italian before reaching out and tugging. "Fuck, they jammed the door." He cursed.

"Why?"

Alfred's frown deepened. Feliciano couldn't see what he was thinking—he wished that he could. "They knew we were coming."

"What?"

"Damn it!" He tore away from the door, Feliciano. "We have to get out of here!"

"What! Why?"

Alfred didn't turn around as he spoke. "This wouldn't be the first time Biondelli blew up a whole neighborhood to get what he wanted."

Feliciano quickened his pace. "What! But you said—his underboss!"

"How could I have been so blind?" He scolded himself. They fell upon the front door, but alas, that too was jammed.

Feliciano could feel himself losing his grip. His breathing quickened. In, out, cross, prayer, darts and copper streams. "What do we do?" He demanded, gripping the gun.

"I—" Alfred tore "—I don't know! People don't survive this!"

"The others. Downstairs. Maybe there's a tunnel, or a bunker, or—"

"This isn't Calabria!" Alfred screamed. "We don't have tunnels and escape routes. We have murderers. Fuck!"

Gunfire, downstairs.

"Where would we most likely survive a blast?" Feliciano pressed, his anxiety rising dangerously. He breathed, in, out, but even though he was able to slow his breathing his insides still twisted and knotted. Anticipation and fear reached his feet.

"Where are you going!"

"They need our help!" He yelled back. Another shot rang out; dinging through the house like a church bell.

"My gun!"

"Try to find a way out!"

Two steps at a time, the last three as a stride. He kept his balance, placing his hand with the pistol under Alfred's rifle to balance the gun upright, ready. The basement steps led to a hall—much like Carriedo's did—but instead of ending it opened to a wide room. Feliciano bust in.

Tables were strewn about everywhere. Some were upright, but most had been pushed over—now being used as cover. White powder ghosted the floor.

Gilbert took a quick glance from where he was before raising his gun and taking a shot. The man he shot at fell back, crying out—alive.

Fourteen bullets for fourteen men. One for good coverage.

Feliciano ground his teeth. Hanging his pistol off the end of his index finger he took a good hold of the gun. Before anyone could notice he was there, Feliciano snaked along the wall. No one had caught the movement, and he stood on the opposing side. Just as he was feeling comfortable in his mindless plan, someone turned on him.

Their face contorted. Ugly.

There was something—someone—in front of him. Feliciano blinked, ugly. Ludwig looked ready to slap him. "What did I tell you!" He screamed in his face.

Feliciano opened his mouth to respond. "What?" he asked quietly.

They stood in a grimy lit basement. An odor basked in the air. Ether mixed with metal. "Ludwig!" Feliciano cried. "Let go, you're hurting me!"

"What did I tell you?" He echoed, louder. Feliciano flinched away.

"What do you—"

"What do you remember?"

"I—Ludwig they're going to blow up the place. They jammed the doors. We need to find a way out!"

He remembered that. He remembered Alfred. He remembered coming downstairs. He remembered his pistol, hanging lazily from his index finger. He remembered a bright light and the ugly contortion of evil and fourteen bullets for fourteen men despite it never being Gilbert's place. He ought to shoot Gilbert next.

What?

Fingers, tap, tap.

His tears rimmed his eyes. "Ludwig. Please come with me. I don't want you getting hurt. We have to get out of here."

"You need to listen to me," he practically cried. "Feliciano _you need to listen to me_."

"I am! I'm breathing, Ludwig. I can remember, I can."

"Can you?" His tone was harsh. Spittle flew from his mouth. "If you can remember then tell me—how did he die."

"Who, Ludwig?" Feliciano cried. A great fear clasped his gut.

He followed the length of Ludwig's arm. There were no more bullets being shared. The room was filled with corpses. Ugly and contorted. Feliciano gasped, stepping backward, but Ludwig held him close. His grip tightened even further on his arms.

One lay strewn over a table. Half of his face had been caved in, his arm was torn to shreds, brain matter and blood covered the floors. Another man was too many colors. The world was a powder keg, and Feliciano felt he was a spark.

A bomb.

"We have to go, Ludwig!" He screamed.

"Do you have no pity?"

"Of course I do!" He wailed. He wished Ludwig would stop and listen to him. He wished that his blue eyes would soften. Sobbing, he tried to speak from his heart. But words wouldn't come, and he couldn't move his hands to demonstrate what he wanted the German to know. "Ludwig—please—I do—I do—Ludwig—I just didn't want—you to get—hurt and Alfred—is—out—Ludwig—I—can't-."

Ludwig shook him. He couldn't breathe. His whole world dipped and spun. He needed to fall. Ludwig pressed him against the wall, cursing what could have been German profanities, as he grabbed the boy's face. "Calm down, Feliciano," he said softly. "It's okay, you're okay. Feliciano, calm down. Listen to my voice, okay? Let's count—Feliciano let's count, okay. One, two, three—Feliciano you have to count with me. Hey, look at me." The German use one of his hands and placed them on Feliciano's chest. The contact burned. "One, two, three—good. No, Feliciano, me. Look at me. Breath into your belly, Feliciano. Four, five, six—no, we're not starting over. Good. Good. Nine, ten. Now slow down your—good, good. Feliciano, good."

Feliciano gripped his friend's arms, his head dipping from time to time, aching, only for Ludwig to guide his chin up.

"Are you ready to continue?" Ludwig asked slowly.

Feliciano shook his head, moving his hands to wrap around Ludwig's neck, burying his face into the other's shoulder. "No," Feliciano cried. "I just want to go home."

"Good."

His breath on the Italian's ear was hot. In, out.

Carriedo broke them apart. "Damn it!" He cried, vexation printed across his strong features. Feliciano fell away from Ludwig. Ludwig was forcefully turned, and it looked like, in that moment, Carriedo was going to punch him. "You've fucked everything up!"

Gilbert grabbed the man's arm. "Don't you dare," he growled. "You can continue your little plan when we get out of here. From what Feli says we have a lot bigger problems than some stupid anxiety disorder." He yanked Carriedo's arm, pounding his point home. Carriedo's stare was chilling. Murderous.

Nevertheless, he led them out of the room and back up the steps. Feliciano refused to look around, grabbing Ludwig's hand and watching his feet.

They found Alfred in a pool of sweat. He groaned and panted, holding pressure to his shoulder. Gilbert knelt in front of him. "Fuck, Al, what did you get yourself into?"

Alfred offered him a sarcastic smile.

"Did you find a way out?" Feliciano asked quickly.

"I—" Alfred hummed, lifting his hand. "There's a window. I haven't tried to break it yet."

"How do you even know that there's a bomb?" Gilbert asked. His tone wasn't disbelieving. Trepidation.

"It's his thing," Alfred laughed. Airy, hazy, forced."'He was notorious in America for planting grenades in cars." The weight of Feliciano's own bombs burned through fabric, calling his attention. "Had to evacuate a school this one time. The kids were so…" he had slowly, throughout the course of talking, getting quieter and more distant. Now he zoned out, staring at the far wall. A dead gaze on his face.

"Al?" Gilbert muttered. The American snapped out of it.

"So how do you know that breaking a window won't activate the bomb?" Ludwig asked.

"I—" he grunted, attempting to stand, "don't. Wouldn't be—the first time—he played with someone like this." Another laugh. Darker. "Wouldn't be the first time—he's played me the fucking fool."

"Is there an upstairs?" Feliciano demanded.

"No."

"Well, then maybe—we could blast through the wall. I—we could go downstairs and throw a grenade up."

Ludwig furrowed his brows. "No, Feliciano. That could end up killing us all. The window is a safer option."

"No, it's not!" Feliciano defended, throwing his hands in the air. "They've jammed the doors, they know we're going for the windows. Ludwig we—we have to get out of here. Okay? So let's play it smart."

Alfred finally stood, leaning against Gilbert. "How long has it been since you killed their last guy?"

Feliciano's heart dropped. "What?"

"I assume the gunfire wasn't for nothing," Alfred groaned. "How long has it been since the last guy was killed."

"Probably around ten minutes," Ludwig answered.

He was silent.

"What do you mean?" Ludwig pressed.

Carriedo laughed lowly from the background. "So, he plays like that, does he?"

Alfred offered a stiff nod.

"What?" Feliciano demanded. Gilbert bit his cheek, Ludwig cast his glance to the floor. " _What_?"

"But, Costello," Gilbert muttered half-heartedly.

"Friends are the one that walk you into the room," Carriedo laughed.

"What are you guys talking about!" Feliciano yelled. His fist began to shake, frustration fueling his lungs. "Stop fucking talking in circles and _tell me_!" He was getting angry again. He needed to calm down. To focus.

The look on Carriedo's face made him want nothing but to punch him. "We were sent in as Biondelli's firing squad. Congratulations."

Feliciano sneered back at him. "What is that supposed to mean?" He demanded. Ludwig grabbed his shoulder as he took a step.

" _Signore_ , let's focus on getting out of here. Not fighting."

He nodded, stepping back, pressing his shoulder into the German's shoulder. "So what do we do?"

"We either get out soon or we die here," Alfred said. "Biondelli doesn't plan for survivors in these situations."

"Then what is taking him so long? Why aren't we dead already?"

Alfred glared at the wall. "He wants to know who the victors were."

"What-What do you mean?"

"I mean exactly what I said. Who was stronger? His old crew or Antonio's."

Ludwig tensed. "So, the window really isn't an option."

"Fuck!" Alfred screamed. "If we wait any longer he'll get restless and _just do it_! If we find a way out, the second the outside world sees us we're going to be blown up!" He shook, his breaths labored. "Fuck! How could I have fallen into his fucking hands like this?"

"It's not your fault. Our information was wrong," Gilbert tried.

"I should know better!" He looked close to tears. "I was the one who almost pinned him in New York. I know his games. I should have been—been-!"

"Yeah, Al, you should have. We all should have. But that's not helping us right now." Gilbert snapped. "We need to figure a way out of this."

"Maybe there's an attic, we could—" Feliciano tried desperately.

"There's no attic."

"Then the roof!"

"We'd be seen!"

"The basement, maybe there's-!"

"We were just down there. All that the basement has is a hall and a room!"

"Well then-!" Feliciano growled, ripping away from Ludwig.

They had to get out of this mess. There seemed to be nothing that they could do. Well, there was one thing—at least one thing that stuck to Feliciano's mind. He half prayed that his idea would work (only half, because the rest of his prayer went out to just in case it didn't work), and Felicano tore a grenade from his pouch. With wide strides he went into the other room, locating the infamous window. Long, gleaming, staring. He smirked, hoping someone would catch a glimpse of him.

"Feliciano!" Ludwig protested.

It was too late. The pin was pulled. Feliciano chucked the bomb as hard as he could. If it bounced back, they would die. If it didn't get far enough before the blast, he would die; if they caught glimpse of him sooner than he expected, then the whole house was likely to explode by Biondelli's explosives.

Feliciano was knocked to the ground.

The shattering of glass, the ringing in his head, the heat over his back as someone hissed in his ear—it told him that just maybe he had succeeded.

Muffled screams tore over him. His head spun, his ears blown. He couldn't hear right. A steady, high pitched thrum. He was pulled to his feet.

Glass covered the floor, flames suffocated the walls in a red passion. Feliciano was pushed forward. They all ran, Gilbert stuck behind with Alfred's dead weight. Feliciano found another grenade in his hand before he could think straight.

Someone took the bomb from his hand, shoving him out the window. He cursed, his leg catching a jagged piece of glass. Gilbert's pants tore, a deep slit in his thigh. Still, he was alive.

He still had one bomb left in his bag.

Ludwig picked him up. He said something about Feliciano's cut but decided they didn't have the time as he began to run, pulling the Italian by the arm. Alfred and Gilbert made it out.

A flash of movement caught the corner of Feliciano's eye; or, perhaps not the corner, simply the side, because when he turned to see what it was he was met with the darkness of the night. The blast would have caught the attention of the whole neighborhood. The flames licked and smudged the darkness.

They regrouped across the street.

Had they really made it out?

"Fuck, why hasn't the house blown?" Alfred growled.

"Maybe you were wrong. Maybe we weren't in—"

The world exploded. Feliciano covered his face with his hands. Hot, dry, stretching heat flooded around them as the small flames Feliciano's hand grenade had caused vented into monstrosities, reaching out to the neighboring houses and shrubs, catching them in the hellish embrace.

An arm was wrapped around Feliciano's waist, demanding his attention. "Don't forget to breathe." It was Ludwig. He was pulling him backward. Feliciano turned. Right, everyone else had already started walking further away. Only he and Ludwig stayed back.

"I—I" Feliciano took a deep breath. "Someone was watching us, Ludwig. They're still here."

Ludwig's facial features grew orange in the flames distant stretch. He looked worried. "What are you saying, Feliciano?"

"Someone is watching us, Ludwig. I don't think we got out, yet."

The screeching of tires joined the cacophony of bystanders screaming and coughing as their houses were burned, as they ran to the streets, crying for their family members, their pets. It had come from the direction the rest of the group had gone.

A black car had stopped. Its nose was long, dipping into the ground. The window lowered.

"No!" Feliciano screamed. He had been right, it wasn't over. Of course not!

He tore away from Ludwig again. He didn't have a gun. He needed a gun. Alfred, Gilbert, Ludwig, they were all in trouble. Automatic rifles, ricocheting through their skin, their bones, beating them to the pavement as they drained like sponges.

His final bomb was out of his control by the time he regained his breaths. He would remember this. He would remember. Alfred and Gilbert had turned to run away from the car, Carriedo had done the same. The blast sent them sprawling onto their stomachs. Gilbert cried out in pain, his back being touched by the flames; he landed on top of Alfred who let out his own yelp—his shoulder digging into the dirt. Feliciano ran forward.

The car was still in good shape. Too good of shape. Ludwig was on him in a moment. "Feliciano!" He yelled. The ringing had returned, so whether or not he had actually yelled it was anyone's guess. Feliciano assumed he had.

"Ludwig!" He cried, throwing his arms wide open. Flames ravished around him. Ludwig was in danger. He would open himself to any gunfire just to keep him safe. "Get back! I don't think it worked!" He screamed.

He could feel his focus drifting. Images flashing through his mind—a dart, a stream, pewter glares and breathless touches and scars and smiles and swooning and-and he focused on the now. On the inferno around him, on the sobs of his friends, on Ludwig's touch.

Though Ludwig was there, he was alone. He knew something was off, but he focused. He focused on the car, his arms outstretched.

He needed a gun.

"Feliciano," Ludwig pleaded.

"They're going to kill you!" Feliciano defended. His heart fell into the flames at his feet as he tore forward. "Gilbert! Gilbert give me your gun!"

The albino didn't move, aside from casting the Italian a pained glance. Feliciano didn't wait for him to recover enough to hear him; he didn't wait for the world to die down.

 _"…only one…"_

He tore into Gilbert's book, finding exactly what he was looking for. He fumbled with the weapon, firing a single shot to make sure it worked.

It worked.

"Feliciano, stop," Ludwig.

Feliciano looked up at him with wide eyes. He could feel the tears, the humidity as they evaporated at an ungodly rate. "Ludwig, we need to protect them." He sobbed.

"I—I" Ludwig stuttered. "I don't know that I believe you."

What was there to believe? Could he not see what was happening? What would Feliciano be lying about?

There was a sudden screech. A crash followed it, the door of the car swung open—most likely by the force of a foot-from its dented shape. Feliciano fell forward, gun poised.

The man's boots shone, gleamed in the ember's winking glares as they twisted onto the pavement. Just above the toe, another metallic nose fell into place. The nose of a rifle.

"Leave us alone!" Feliciano screamed. The gun shook. Breathe, breathe, in, out, focus. Ludwig, flames, shoes, bystanders.

"Damn—it—" Alfred grunted, pushing Gilbert off. His exertions put a great drain on him, as he panted—coughing as smoke filled his lungs. He sat up, joining Feliciano in the cold stare down.

The man finally showed his face, throwing a cigarette from his lips as he pushed the door open further and fully emerged from the car.

Biondelli.

He was dressed well, as any good guess, a smirk lay fertile on his lips. He glared down at the lot—Carriedo, passed out, crumpled to the dirt; Gilbert, straining to push himself up but his arms failing; Feliciano, shaking like an autumn leaf; Alfred—pitiful Alfred. Dark eyes, once finding him, seemed to become distracted. Amused by the American's inability to even stand.

"Officer Jones," Biondelli's voice was black honey. Whatever this was, whatever tore Biondelli out of hiding, risking his life just to kill some American bastard, was personal.

A growl ripped from Alfred—low and beastly. He looked like he was trying to stand, trying to bolt for the man and beat him to death with his fists. Biondelli pulled his trigger.

But not before Feliciano did.

Feliciano caught him in the shoulder, catching him off guard as his focus had been solely on the American. Alfred screamed something, but Feliciano didn't hear it.

" _You_ -!" Bionelli shrieked. Throwing his rifle up and preparing to simply mow down everyone in his wake.

Feliciano shook. In, out, stay in the moment. He imagined Ludwig, cupping his face and whispering calming words. He imagined Lovino's smile. Something, anything to calm down his pulse and fill his lungs. A soft radio playing in the background. No! At the moment. It was too much, too stressful.

He blinked, again, again. Shaking, his gun shaking.

 _Don't get comfortable._

What did that mean? What had it meant? He needed to focus.

It was Alfred that shot next. Bionelli 's string of bullets hit the ground, inches away from where Carriedo lay unconscious. Feliciano pursed his lips, breathing deep into his diaphragm, before pulling his own trigger again. Two shots hit the Italian Boss at that moment. Ludwig stood beside Feliciano, a gun outstretched.

"He's—mine—" Alfred ground, putting all his energy into standing. He had lost too much blood. Still, he held on to his goal. "For—Samantha."

Another man emerged from the car. Feliciano knew he couldn't have enough ammo in his clip to continue this back-and-forward. He was out of bombs—his German companion having thrown the one he took into the shrubbery earlier—and wasn't a good enough aim to kill the man from where he stood.

To kill the man.

He staggered back. Ludwig held his gun dangerously, Alfred took another shot. The world was slow.

He was intending to kill this man or that man or—whoever he was planning to kill. It wasn't his choice! Don't get comfortable. Ran through his head again. He could feel the tears falling down his face, could smell the blood from the basement, could see the mangled corpses, could feel how his boots crunched gravel and dirt beneath his feet. His arms ached. His legs burned. His shoulders shook and his knees were trying to go to jelly as he thought of the implications that had just been applied to the situation—he was planning—he was willing—to kill. To take a life; that's more than he was ready to handle.

Ludwig's cross. Where had he put it? Had he dropped it in the action? Shame began to stir as he looked down, attempting to find the precious medal.

Another shot, another string, another life in danger as he searched for the seal of the Lord, as he looked for the friendliness that may be able to save him from—from whatever was the matter with him. He couldn't find it, he couldn't find it, _he couldn't find it_.

Breathe in and out and don't get comfortable and don't forget and remember to stay calm—but not too calm!?—and don't forget what you've seen and what you've done because darkness is just an excuse to escape from the remorse.

Remorse.

If he couldn't cling to his cross, then he would cling to that. Allow the Lord to rectify his soul; judge him accordingly; allow him to breathe and to fight but to also remember. Feliciano was tired of being ignorant. Ignorant to whatever caused Lovino to look at him like he was afraid, ignorant to what kept Ludwig always on the edge of his seat, what caused Roma to send him here, Carriedo and Francis their amusement. He was done.

And Biondelli's man was shooting. The light of the shot mixed with that of the flames; it's droning cry with the murmurs of the wind and the cackle of the heat.

May the Lord forgive him. For he was sorry about taking a life, but he wasn't going to let any more people die for this cause.

He gracefully ignored the oxymoron.

No longer counting seconds, he counted rounds. Just how many shots did he have left? Eleven, he quickly decided. Maybe twelve. He would count on ten.

Make that nine. The kick of his gun was a comfort.

He focused on what he saw, not what he felt because the stirring inside him threatened to turn to aggravation and he didn't need that on his conscious—killing out of spite was different than killing out of the will to protect. He hoped.

How much time had passed? How were his friends not dead yet? He bit down on his lip, another shot, another list of steps—of continuing to pretend the tear in his leg wasn't as painful as the tear in his heart.

"He-s-mine!" Alfred howled, finally making it to his feet and shooting. "Don't you fucking dare—Feliciano!" He screamed.

Feliciano paid attention to what he was seeing, not what he was feeling.

He paid attention to the smell of the world.

He paid attention to the bystanders, watching his every movement.

He paid attention to how Ludwig coiled into himself, scared, angry?

He paid attention to every cut on his body, how his own anger made him want to scream and how hot breaths filled his mouth as he threw his vexation away in the form of a loosely muttered prayer.

He paid attention to his gun. To Gilbert's gun, how the metal pressed into his skin, smooth.

His steps how they quickened.

His enemy as he recovered from the shot.

His enemy's gun as it spit it's fire, as he hauled it up to try and catch the Italian.

His body as it ducked.

His body as it ran.

His body as it rose just enough to bring his shot just above the car door—using the black metal as a shield.

His enemy—Alfred's enemy—as the trigger was pulled.

Because killing out of revenge was not the same as killing out of the will to protect.

And he remembered. He remembered it all. Biondelli was dead, and he had been the one to kill him.

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE**

 _Long chapter, sorry, but I really didn't want to break up this scene again. We have a lot more to cover in this story. Unfortunately, Ivan and Kiku are not going to play as BIG of a role in Feliciano's story as I had originally planned. There's—uh—distractions that the poor guy gets—uh—wrapped up with. Ivan does come in next chapter though! And the two are HUGE players in Alfred's story—a bit bigger in Lovino's but not the main focus there, either. I thought about making the story longer to get everything in, but Feliciano is a sensitive character to write. He has a certain amount of time before the ending, and I can't stretch too much more plot than what's on the drawing board currently without screwing with the character that I've spend 34,000 words on, already._

 _Also, to the people coming in from Lovino's story, no, sorry, Antonio was not killed in this scene and BAM new ending. He's a fuckface, and he stays like that ?))_

 **HISTORICAL NOTES**

 _When Antonio says "Friends are the ones that walk you into the room," it was referring to the practice of the mafia executing threats within their own crew. You see, if someone was suspected of gaining too much power, breaking the law of Omerta, or screwing someone (boss, rest of crew, etc) over they could very well be executed. There's no official trial (though, depending on the ranking of the one getting killed, they may confront him to make sure they're not making a mistake), just one moment your best friend is telling you to come with them for something, the next you're in a room that you'll never leave alive._


	11. Fallen Angel

Recall that Gabriel is HRE; thanks.

* * *

 _"—and he'll come with me. It's for the best."_

 _"Like fuck we are. No! I don't care how batshit crazy she is. We're staying with mom._ Together _."_

* * *

He was no hero.

Ludwig was close enough to touch, to smell, to fall into. He wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn't. He couldn't move past the blond; empires burning beneath German hands, his face being torn to sand beneath such intensity; the world bowed to his eyes, the stone that warmed and swam and gleamed as the pitter patter of rain filled the Italian's ears. He was so close. Feliciano, if so bold, could have leaned in. A smile meeting the playful smirk.

"You look out of it," Ludwig said. His voice had become something of a memory. A higher pitch. Feliciano blinked.

"I'm just watching the rain," he giggled. "Isn't it so beautiful?"

Feliciano could have swooned as blue eyes peeled away to stare out the doorframe. Coldwater fell in sheets, beating against the top of the stranger's garage the pair had taken refuge in. Outside Manarola became a haven of beauty. Shingled roofs of brown and red cascaded down, winking away as the vast greens of the Mediterranean took to the grey horizon. Boats dipped in the dancing waters, lights twinkling off silver pavement. A cool breeze twirled off the waters, the smell of salt and fish mixing with the arbitrary paints and oils of their shelter.

The blond beside him let out a sigh. It was one of content. Feliciano loved the sound of it, and he demonstrated this by turning and giving his friend a wide grin.

"Yes," the boy finally responded, offering Feliciano a smile of his own, one as equally distracted as Feliciano had just been, raising at one side of his lips higher than the other, "beautiful."

"How long do you think we're stuck here?"

He shrugged. "Seems to be coming down in pockets. We could be stuck for another five minutes—we could be stuck here all night." He laughed. "Don't look so worried!"

"Lovi will be mad if I don't come home soon!" He defended with a wide gesture.

He laughed again. His head tilted back as he did this, unruly blond locks shuttering in the winds. "You worry too much, Feli. I'm sure your brother will understand you not wanting to get sick!" Feliciano offered a pout. "Don't look at me like that." A wink. "You know I'm right."

Feliciano offered him a playful roll of his eyes. "You know I'm right," he mocked playfully.

"Don't take that tone with me!" The other waved his finger in the air, clicking his tongue and shaking his head.

"Sorry, Mom," Feliciano giggled, twirling around with wide arms. His eyes scanned the contents of the garage as his companion sputtered something in playful defense. Finding what he was looking for, he was quick to pounce. A small radio. "Want to listen to some music?" He formed it as a question but the other didn't get a say in the situation. Flipping the spring switch on the side of the small brown box and taking a long minute to dial to a coherent station, Feliciano lifted to his toes when he finally found something that wasn't static or news. Of course, he accidentally moved the radio when he did this, forcing himself to have to take another draining minute to move the radio about the table until he found a place where the sound was clear. Harmoniously the sounds from the box mixed with that of the weather.

"Dance with me," it wasn't a question. Feliciano turned, heat flushing his cheeks as his eyes quickly stole a glance at the outstretched hand.

"I—I," he stuttered sheepishly.

Another laugh. Warm, filling the auburn-haired kid with butterflies. "You dance all the time, Feli. Now just do that. But with me." Feliciano wasn't sure whether the look the blond was giving him was teasing or kind, perhaps a little bit of both. "Please?"

Feliciano's hand had been taken as a new song began to play. It was one of his favorites. _La Fisarmonica_. Biting his cheek, attempting to ignore just how the contact made him want to melt, Feliciano took a deep breath. The blond snaked a hand around his waist, his eyes becoming more teasing when Feliciano almost squeaked.

"Where's your spirit?" He baited as they began to spin, at first slow, with the beat, before their feet got the best of them and they were dancing around, forgetting the melody.

Feliciano shook with laughter, spinning wildly, never more than an arm's length from his partner. More than once he was caught just before he tripped to the floor. He hadn't cared that he was falling, his eyes half closed as he attempted to catch his breath. Hands laced together as he was pulled back to his feet, into a strong embrace for a sway, before being twirled away again. All the time he never lost sight of those eyes. Shimmering in the twinkling lights of the outside world. The song had changed, before changing again, but neither of them noticed.

Finally, they slowed, not because of Feliciano. Feliciano could have continued forever. The blond held him close, hands resting on the lower small of the brunette's back as they swayed together, chest to chest. It sent shivers up Feliciano's spine. He kept his cool. Attempted to. Their breaths mixed, their smiles reflected one another, their eyes never parted. Feliciano giggled.

"Tired already? Where's _your_ spirit? I thought you would have at least—"

It was faint, the slightest hint in the world. If Feliciano's whole body hadn't been aflame, if every nerve wasn't so focused on him, if the world hadn't stopped and the rain and radio disappeared, being replaced by the thrum of his heart, then maybe he would have missed it. But, alas, when the blond's hand brushed against his neck, applying the smallest of pushes just beneath his hairline, pressing for a new closeness, Feliciano's voice—his breath, his train of thought—was stolen. Electricity played with his veins, shooting across his skin as the arm around his waist brought him even closer.

Feliciano rested his fingers between golden tresses, lifting his chin, allowing his site to flutter away from blue to glance down at the other's lips and back, just as the blond brought his gentle touch around to cup the brunette's jaw. His blinked his eyes shut, falling into the trace of lips on his own.

Only when he blinked his eyes open again did the pitter patter truly disappeared, replaced by cackling embers and screaming. The press on his lips never let up. His back pressed against burning metal, protected only by a single arm around his waist. Unruly golden locks were straightened out, the gentle hold more desperate. Calling to him. Pleading for him. The tears on the Italian's cheeks mixed and mingled with those that fell from the German's own lashes.

Feliciano cried out, taking in the last breath from a long-forgotten past. His chest tormented him. Ludwig pulled away.

"I—I," Feliciano cried. "I killed him."

Ludwig's gaze looked like it wanted to harden, to soften, to swim around the Italian a million times before stopping right here—only with some sort of answer to a question Feliciano was deaf to.

His hands shook as he wrapped them around the German, stuffing his face into the strong chest. "I killed him," he repeated. The words dying just past his lips as the dark fabric of Ludwig's suit muffled them into nothingness.

"Feliciano," he muttered quietly, allowing his hand around the teen's waist to be joined by the other, "we have to go."

Feliciano wanted to fall. He tried to fall, giving his knees the liberty to stop holding him up, but Ludwig was too dependable. Feliciano sobbed. "But—I—I can't—won't-I killed him!"

"Feliciano," Ludwig's tone was stern, reprimanding a child. "You need to stand, and we need to go. The police will be here any moment. Are you looking to get arrested?"

"I—I," he stammered.

"Because I can promise you now if you stay to get arrested then so am I."

Why was he so dense? Feliciano chewed on his lip, still tingling from the sensation. Still bleeding. "My cross."

"What?"

"I—I dropped it. The cross you gave me. I—I don't want to leave without it."

"We'll come back later. It could be in the house."

Feliciano dropped his voice, knowing that the German was listening intently. "Please, Ludwig."

So, he left. Looking both ways across the street, checking the ground as Feliciano collapsed against the car. He killed him. Wrapping his arms around himself, burning up from the inside, shivering against the hot metal, the width of a door away from the lifeless body, he found he couldn't cry anymore. He could see a hand just beyond the outstretched door. Fingers plagued by arthritis.

"You've taken everything from me!"

The screech was louder than any bomb Feliciano had ever heard. A bullet flew through the air, bending and piercing the metal just above Feliciano's shoulder. He killed him. Lazily he allowed his vision to raise from dead fingers. A shuttering, trembling figure of vexation stood there. The color had drained from his body—the fact that he could stand was a miracle. He stood there with his gun pointed. Nevertheless, he couldn't take aim. He shook too much, gravely murderous.

"You've—everything from me, _Vargas_." He took a staggered step forward. His face was littered with orange shadows. Vengeance had turned him into the actor of a monster. Losing his chance converted him fully.

Or maybe _Alfred wasn't the monster between the two of them._

Murdering to protect was still murder.

Murdering to avenge was still murder.

Murder was murder. A sin. Something he would—

"You will _burn_ in hell!"

Yes, that. Another shot, catching just in front of him. He didn't move. He would burn. If his trial commenced now would it really be all that corrupt? He couldn't apologize, couldn't move his lips. Alfred sobbed.

"You've taken— _everything_ ," he choked again. Something seemed to have lodged itself into the American's throat. He spoke around it. "Feliciano, you will- _you've taken everything_."

Tears finally erupted into Feliciano's eyes. He closed his eyes, bowing his head into his knees. "I'm sorry," he whispered into his legs, not daring to let Alfred hear him. He deserved to die. He wouldn't take this from the American in front of him.

Dumb smiles and khaki shorts. Feliciano prayed that in another life they would be friends. Those who took reverence in one another. Made each other laugh. He balled his fists, ready.

"If you weren't already on the cusp on dying I'd shoot you!" Ludwig screamed over the crackling flames, over the choking smokes and shuddering breaths into knees. Feliciano hated him. Looked up to find that he had knocked the gun from Alfred's hand, grabbing him by the bad shoulder, making him writhe with pain.

"Ludwig!" Feliciano cried. "Don't hurt him!"

Ludwig pushed him away. Alfred fell. Feliciano was quick to scramble up, falling to his knees. Tears pooled around him, blurring his vision as he cried.

Alfred wasn't responsive. Feliciano checked for a pulse, fear for his friend's life. It was weak, but still there. "Please, we need to help him!" Feliciano cried to Ludwig. "Please, he's going to die!"

"He—He was going to kill you," Ludwig's tone was quiet, spoken not to Feliciano but to himself, inquisitive and confused. Feliciano grabbed at Alfred's figure, attempting to pull him up.

"I—I don't care!" he wailed. "We can't let him die, Ludwig. Not like this!"

Happy smiles and a stupid Hawaiian shirt. Not laced with the pieces of a tattered suit and tormented. Ludwig succumbed to the Italian's request, swooping down and grabbing the unconscious American.

"Fine. Go wake Antonio up and make sure my brother can walk." Feliciano nodded, heading to Gilbert first.

"Beilschmidt, can you stand?"

Gilbert groaned. He had been kneading the ground with his fingernails, attempting to stand before falling again. "Trying, Feli," he ground. Feliciano carefully grabbed him around the abdomen—only to be hissed at when he touched the man's burns. "Careful!"

"Sorry!"

Slowly they worked him to his feet. He was hunched over, letting out growls of pain as they walked. Slowly they were starting toward Ludwig. Carriedo appeared then, grabbing the other side of Gilbert.

"Just gonna leave me there, were you?"

Feliciano chewed on his cheek. He wasn't prepared to add lying to today's list of sins.

With Antonio's help they were able to go a bit quicker. "We're going to be seen," Carriedo susurrated, Ludwig nodded.

"I know. The car's not too far from here. We'll stop by the hospital and drop Alfred off."

"He'll be arrested when they see us."

"Then we leave him anonymously."

"They might not get to him in time."

"I—I'll walk in with him," Feliciano offered.

"No," Ludwig refused. "Your family is too well known."

"Not to mention they've been on the look for you since—"

"Shut up!" Ludwig decided. "We leave him anonymously or not at all. We certainly don't have the blood available at the fucking shack to keep his heart sustained. Stop talking—both of you."

They fell into a wordless scuffle down the roads. Six blocks hadn't felt far enough, now it was a marathon. Finally, they made it to the car. Ludwig lay Alfred in the back, Carrido and Feliciano taking each side of him and Gilbert regaining the front. He hissed as he sat down arching his back away from the leather. Ludwig dug the keys out from where they were hidden and took the wheel.

Gilbert led Ludwig to the hospital. It had been his job to remember everything in the area, though Carriedo probably had the better experience with the area. The Boss just stared—scowled out the window.

Feliciano felt his heart wither as they left the hospital, Alfred slumped messily against the entrance wall to the ER. It would be the last time Feliciano ever saw the American, and he could feel that fact sink like a stone to his gut.

He wouldn't remember him like this.

Stupid smiles and dumb khaki shorts and the most amazing attitude. That's what he would remember. He closed his eyes.

He wished that he could have fallen asleep on the ride back, but his mind was too awake. Images of the gun in his hand shooting, hitting its target in sickening beauty, continuously cajoled him awake. Only, after a while, Gilbert's pistol had changed. Warping into something new every few minutes. How many guns had Feliciano shot? How many lost memories crawled around in his head? He dug his nails into the slash in his leg to keep from letting the others know he was crying. Though he was sure the gasps he let out occasionally, unable to hold his breath any longer, unable to allow the stars and darkness to scuff out the images playing on repeat—only to change again into something new!—were heard.

How many guns had Feliciano shot?

How many lost memories crawled around in his head?

How many _people had he killed_?

It wasn't long after they got back to the house that the landline trilled. Biondelli was dead. People were told. And now, almost a thousand miles away, Gilbert and Ludwig's grandfather lay splattered in the streets.

A warning.

* * *

"No, Ludwig, I don't give a crap about him. We're going to Germany!"

"He's already dead, Gilbert! There's nothing we can do!"

"We can track down the motherfucker that did it!" Gilbert shrieked. They had been screaming at the top of their lungs for over an hour now. "I've already talked to Roma. He has crews in Germany. We're going to make this guy pay."

"You don't have the faintest idea who—"

"Like hell I don't!" the paroxysm caused the albino to wince. Delirious, eyes rimmed red, face smudged and black—contrasting silver hair greedily. "Unlike you, I kept correspondence with him when I left Frankfurt."

"Then _who_ are we going after," Ludwig scorned, taking a dangerous step forward. "Because as far as I care—"

"Braginsky."

"What?" Ludwig's voice had fallen flat. "But—"

"Yeah, that's what happens." Gilbert wore a victorious glare. "Betrayal if a bitch. Welcome to it first hand, _bruder_."

"I—But I can't leave. Feliciano— _Signore_ —"

"He'll take care of himself just fine." Gilbert cried. "This is a family matter, Ludwig! You can't turn away from this for some stupid sentimentalism!"

"It's not—"

"Like hell it's not. Fuck, Ludwig! I'm not asking you to come back with me. This is an order. Do you understand?"

"Six months in the military didn't make me blind!"

"No, but two here seems to've."

Feliciano had lost all drive. To cry, to hope, to anything. He just lay in Ludwig's bed, hugging himself and listening. The roughness of Gilbert's voice was almost soothing against the grain of his mind. Empty thoughts filled the space of his head, like zeros, building to something great. But it seemed his stood behind decimals. The more they built, they added, the less anyone cared. The less he cared.

"I'm not leaving him." Ludwig defended. His tone had dropped.

"We leave on the next flight. Get your shit together."

The conversation was over. There was no more arguing. Feliciano stared blankly as Ludwig made his way into the room. Too timid for his stature. He looked like he was walking across eggshells. Feliciano wanted to turn away from him, heart throbbing, not sure whether it was because Ludwig was leaving or just because he was going to be alone.

"Feliciano?" Ludwig muttered.

Feliciano sniffed in response; he couldn't speak, his voice a prisoner of war, trapped behind iron bars that fed down from his head. Ludwig took a seat on the bed. He looked down at his hands, they shook. "Feliciano, come with me," he offered. "To—To Germany. If you come with me, I can protect you."

Just like he had protected him here.

He killed him.

Ghosted faces kissed Feliciano's nose, pulling away, decomposing as shards and blood and muscles ripped away, sticking to Feliciano's face like a warm goo. Pulling, stinging, the red string of a soul mate. Feliciano seemed to have made many. Did he kill all of them?

Ludwig pressed something into his hand. The cross. "I'm sorry for not giving it back earlier."

Feliciano pressed his eyes closed. His mouth was dry, he couldn't think, felt numb to the warm metal and the hovering fingers over his head because all he could think about was just how fragile human lives were. Just how easy it was to shatter a bone. Just how easy it was to point and shoot and hit your target because he had spent hours learning just how to perfect his aim. With a smile.

"You're shaking."

And he was thinking now, with Ludwig's warmth and the quiet of the night leering over the house and slinging through the cracks like another world attempting to cajole him to follow them through some hidden passage; he was Alice, innocent and confused, as the other mother smoothed down his hair with a devious smirk and all the right words because if someone had offered to take his soul in that moment, only he had to give up his eyes, hopefully, his sight, he would in an instant because part of him was praying that the images in his head would cease and never return. There were too many people to be from one lifetime. And there was that boy. He hated himself for not remembering that one's name. He now had the face seared into his brain. It wasn't Ludwig, no, it couldn't be. The boy was Italian. His words were gentle, melodic, enticing and honey on his lips and mingling with his breath as lust took hold of their limbs and taught them a new dance. Round and round.

Ludwig's touch would never compare. Not in a million years. Not if they spent the rest of their lifetimes together. It was filled with electricity, but not the warmth of morning coffee and the anticipation of a school child and the innocence of a first love.

It wasn't innocent.

It was a sin.

Now the lust filled kisses scorned him, burned him, repented him. Killed him.

Murder to protect is still murder.

Murder to avenge is still murder.

Murder to save is to sacrifice.

Ludwig stood up. He wasn't getting an answer. He was bored. He couldn't compare but something about him kept Feliciano from forgetting—what was the limit on how long he could remember? He kept a tight hold on the guilt in his gut. No matter how much his wandering thoughts wanting to numb it out in a sea of disassociation. He would remember. He would try. _Ludwig was leaving_.

Feliciano grabbed the German's wrist moments before it was too far to reach. Ludwig tensed. "I—Ludwig," Feliciano whispered. Tears. Guilt. Fear. "Please, don't leave." In that moment Feliciano moved, getting on his knees and closing the distance between them. A trembling kiss.

He would do anything to keep from being left alone again.

Ludwig was tense, a stone. Feliciano wrapped his arms around his neck, attempting to deepen the kiss, being met with a hand on his chest.

Ludwig pushed him away.

"Ludwig—I—please, Ludwig—I—" Feliciano cried.

Ludwig shook his head. "You're not in the right mindset." His blue eyes spun, moving his hand from Feliciano's chest to his cheek. "Feliciano I—" he cut himself off, shaking his head. Once again his gaze was cast to the floor.

"Please, Ludwig. I—I don't want to—don't—"

Ludwig wrapped him into a tight hug. "I won't leave," he promised. "Feliciano, let me work this out. You have to stay calm."

Feliciano shook his head. "No! I—I—I—Ludwig I can't! I—" he tightened his grip around the German's neck. "I can't, Ludwig. I can't be a—I can't—"

He couldn't imagine being alone right now.

Ludwig ran his fingers through the Italian's hair, brushing out knots, sweeping a gentle touch across the boy's skin before returning to the top of his head. They stayed there for a long while, Feliciano crying into the crook of the German's neck, shaking his head, whimpering his pleas.

Because he knew that if he opened his eyes, if he gazed just past Ludwig's shoulder, _they_ would be there.

"Feliciano, I have to go for now."

No. This couldn't be happening. He couldn't be alone. They would get him. Did Ludwig not see that!? Did Ludwig not understand the implications? Did he not know that the shadows of silence would—it would—

"Ludwig! No! Please don't!" He screamed as the German attempted to push him away.

A lock of blond hair, fluttering in the wind.

"No, Ludwig! I will do anything. Please, Ludwig, I can't—"

"I'll be right back, Feliciano, I promise." Ludwig brushed a quick kiss to his forehead. "You need to calm down."

His eyes were closed, forever closed. He knew Ludwig was turning, leaving. Feliciano stooped to sit. He cried there. The shelter of the blanket wouldn't protect him now.

The fire in his belly eccentricated when he felt a hand on his own. His shoulders trembled. "I'm sorry," he cried, barely parting his lips. Tears, snot, the sickly-sweet smell of fire and smoke and decomposition and that single stream of copper running.

Tap, tap, another dart in the wood.

When he allowed his vision to flutter open, just barely, he was alone. He shut them quickly again, rising to his feet. Slowly he made his way forward. The blackness as he walked was welcomed. Through a door, following the walls until he was met with the stairs. His mind had started attempting to piece together his surroundings, despite him being blind. Now, standing at the top of the staircase, he stood before a void. It grabbed him by the throat. Swallowing he continued down.

He stopped in front of Lovino's door. A sharp pain ran through his arms, his wrists, his legs. He clattered to the floor. No, he wouldn't open his eyes. No, he wouldn't look to his assailant. He screamed when the pain around his wrist had gotten to be too much.

"Feliciano!" Lovino. He had swung his door open, Feliciano had—somewhere between his sobs and the relentless whispering in his head—heard that. Something warm pressed against him. It fought the deathly chill, though it was receding. "Feliciano, stop that!" Lovino demanded, grabbing the boy's hand. Something clattered to the floor.

Feliciano tried to breathe in; maybe he had to get rid of his breath—the lump in his throat!

"Feliciano, open your eyes," Lovino commanded.

He shook his head. His fingers were laced with that of his brothers, yet they still attempted to ball into fists.

He attempted to speak. Nothing, nothing, he couldn't, the whispers too loud, the heat too evasive, the hand on his hand though he was alone.

"Feliciano!" Lovino screamed.

"I—I can't be alone right now, _fratello_ ," he sobbed pathetically.

"What—do you remember?" Lovino almost choked.

"I killed him," Feliciano responded. "I—I—I don't—I _killed_ him."

Lovino's hands tightened around his own. "Feliciano, please open your eyes." He finally stammered out. His whole body shook as much as Feliciano's. Feliciano followed orders this time.

The whole word was hazed. It was just him and Lovino. A soft light peeked out from Lovino's room, haloing the older Italian who offered Feliciano a shaky smile. His countenance reverberated against the warm expression. "It's late, Feli, let's get to bed. We can talk about it in the morning." He pleaded.

Feliciano blinked at him—fluttering lashes, barely closing, picking up tears and blinding him—nodding slowly. Lovino helped him to his feet, careful when grabbing his wrist—which, when Feliciano looked down to see why it throbbed so, looked bruised, as if someone had taken a blunt object to it repeatedly—and led him to the bed. In his wake of getting up to see what was wrong, he had tossed his covers to the floor, his notebook laying sprawled open on the bed with a pen lying in its crease. Lovino's gun sat innocently on the bedside table.

Feliciano felt safer here. Safer with Lovino. He laid down slowly as Lovino cleaned up his writing utensil, putting it next to his gun, and scooped the comforter up from the floor.

"Lovino?" Feliciano quietly inquired just as Lovino placed the blanket over him.

"Hmm?" the older brother hummed back in response.

"Who…who's Gabriel?"

There was a long pause. Lovino got into bed himself, close enough that he could wrap Feliciano into a tight hug, slightly sitting as if he didn't plan on sleeping "We'll talk about it in the morning, Feli."

Feliciano nodded slowly, laying his head on his brother's chest. Here he was safe. Just like when they were kids, running from the mafia. When their mother went to go make sure the coast was clear. When they were still kids. Lovino lay a hand on top of Feliciano's head. He shook. It would be a long while before Feliciano reflected not from fear.

Though he was safe from the outside world here, Lovino couldn't protect him from himself. He fell into a blank stare again after a minute of trying to sleep. The closer he got to unconsciousness, the more real the fleeting images his brain made felt.

"Feliciano?" Lovino said quietly. Feliciano wanted to look up at him, wanting to hum something in response, but he couldn't. He couldn't look past his brother's long-sleeved shirt, rolled up just enough that Feliciano could see old splotched scars. A rash, red and irritated lay over them.

Lovino was getting better from one thing, only to be attacked by another. Feliciano's breath hitched. " _Si_?" he finally answered.

There was a long moment before Lovino said anything else. Feliciano got lost in his head again. Dead-panned forward, looking, thinking. Always thinking. It was too quiet.

"I love you, _fratello_."

Feliciano couldn't answer. He was stuck in the rain, stuck in the flames. The silence droned into something of gunfire. The light, soft and orange, that he had looked onto as a savior minutes before ticked and danced on the walls, flirting with shadows.

Lovino chuckled. It was dark, laced with nostalgia and irony. "You're supposed to say it back, silly."

But how could one say anything when a hand was clasped around their throat. Blue.

Murdering to save is to sacrifice.

He woke up alone in the morning.

* * *

 **AUTHORS NOTES**

 ** _This_** _*clap* **is** *clap* **not** *clap* **a** *clap* **romance**. _

**HISTORICAL NOTES**

 _Okay, so we will be going into this in depth in Alfred's story (as Al gets to actually play in Germany_ _😊 ) but I want to touch upon it here._

 _Organized crime in Germany is a plethora of groups. You got Russian, Turkish people (Turkians?), Italians (most definitely), Arabs, Albanians, etc. A big Italian group in German is the 'Ndrangheta, which if you remember is what the Vargas mafia is based off here, so it makes sense that Roma would have crews there._

 **MEDICAL NOTES**

 _Okay, so to lighten the end of this chapter (unfortunately it gets darker from here, so if this was a lot_ **TURN AROUND AND JUST READ THE RESOLUTION CHAPTER** _), let's finally get into WTF is going on with Feliciano._

 _He suffers from Dissociative Amnesia. This is a particular branch of amnesia that causes those who suffer from it to forget things when they are at high-stress levels that are tied into traumatic events such as war, abuse, etc. (My sources for this explanation is webmd and if you want to look into it more after all this)_

 _Symptoms of this disorder can include significant memory loss of times, people, and events; out-of-body experiences when remembering something; depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts; a detachment from emotions; and a lack of self-identity (hehe, Feli is a Mary Sue on purpose)._

 _It is even possible for people to forget EVERYTHING about themselves. Like, they forget their names, past, etc! It's really quite amazing just to what extent this disorder can go (not novel amazing, but, like, from a medical perspective. This is still a disorder and I ask that you respect that. I am not romanticizing ANYTHING in this fic.)_

 _It is also something that seems to be hereditary which…well, we'll get into his mother in Lovino's story. I think we'll actually touch up on everything in Lovino's story, so let's stop here_ _😊)))_


	12. My Demons

_It was all in spite of_ him _. This betrayal!_

 _He crumpled the paper in his hand. He would not let the brat get his way this time._

* * *

Feliciano wrapped himself into a tight hug. Lovino would be back, he would, because they were always there for one another when they were kids. They depended on each other. Lovino knew that. Lovino would be back. He would be because he knew how much Feliciano needed him. He promised that they'd talk this morning. He had promised. So Lovino would be back. He would.

Lovino would chase them away.

Lovino would turn on the lamp. He would clean up his stuff, and he would hold Feliciano until everything was okay. Because if he didn't Feliciano didn't know what he would do.

He didn't know what he would do about the flashing memories. They felt more like a movie, reeling from somewhere in a distance, playing in the back of his mind no matter how hard he closed his eyes. The stars of pressure became figures. Some were faceless; some not so lucky.

The sheets around him smelt of sweat. Musk. It wrapped around the boy, pulling him further and further into the intoxications of the blankets. Of the spinning ceilings. He wanted to writhe, to run, but couldn't move. The heat was suffocating. Flames, lapping, tirelessly dancing, dancing, tapping, another dart in the wood as everything beamed in and out of focus.

Long minutes passed when he couldn't remember what he was thinking the minute before. Hours seemed to twirl around him, teasing him, flirting with him as they pulled at his hair. He hissed in pain. Told them to back off. Pleaded with them when they moved to sneer and laugh and mock. Tears streamed down his face. Tick, tick, the whole world was laughing at him, now.

"He's going to come back!" Feliciano cried at the shadows. "He promised!" The boy had found himself against the wall next, bloodied knuckles and crumbled wall beside him. When had he gotten up? Shadows surrounded him now. "Go away," he demanded. "Go away!" But they wouldn't. Lovino hadn't turned on the lamp yet. Feliciano swallowed the fear that he never would.

Staring blankly before him he watched as a woman took a pen and drew a line on her neck. She was pretty, brunette. Feliciano would have flirted with her if he hadn't realized in the next moment she didn't hold a pen but a knife. The line dripped and dribbled down a beautiful shade of olive.

Black hair. He liked the color. Something from a poet's collection. He only wished it didn't stick to his fingers so. How did women deal with this? Not being able to get strands of hair from between one set of fingers without getting them stuck between the other. It didn't help that they were wet.

Guns were fun. He especially liked Lovino's.

Were these scratches real? They felt real. They tasted real. He decided that they were real. Then again, _he_ felt real too.

Feliciano hadn't opened his eyes for a long while, now. His teeth stay clenched; he tried not to breath through his nose. The aroma had become too much. Too much. It was unforgettable. Even without breathing he could imagine it. It was distinctly Lovino. Lovino, the one who was just moments away. Feliciano was sure of it. He was. Lovino was almost home. He was just moments away. He was. Lovino was almost home. He was just moments away. He was. Lovino was almost home. Lovino was almost home. Because home was where ever they could be together. That's what Lovino had told him years and years ago. Lovino was almost home. He was just moments away. He was. Lovino was almost home.

Maybe he should have given back the pen. He really wasn't the best at drawing when he couldn't erase.

He had pretty eyes. Feliciano loved them. He held them up to look at them better, squinting through the darkness because _Lovino hadn't turned on the lamp yet, that silly boy._ Feliciano giggled at the thought, squishing one of the orbs, wondering why his thumb was numb to so many sensations as if it was overused. None of his fingers _felt_ like the rest of his body did. Something could brush his arm and he would feel it and know that he felt it without looking, but if something touched his fingertip he would have to see it to know that it touched him. The indigo iris elongated, never popping because Feliciano was gentle. He really had liked how he had played piano, too.

He rocked. His fingers tightened and curled into messy auburn locks. His breaths were scattered, short, desperate. He stared at his lap—maybe if he opened his eyes a little wider he would see more, he would understand more. Maybe if he tugged harder he would make more room in his skull for answers. Where was Lovino? Why hadn't he turned on the lamp yet! Feliciano sneered, he hated when hair got between his fingers.

"Don't get too comfortable," Feliciano chirped to him. The boy offered him a tight-lipped smiled. "Don't give me that," Feliciano sighed, digging his pen into the mattress.

"Get away!" He screamed, tore, his throat bled, bled, but there was no line. Though he did like the shade of her skin. Olive.

Feliciano tore his clothes off, throwing them to the floor. They itched. Crawled. Even on the floor, he could see them wiggle and dance. Feliciano scratched at his back, desperate to get every seam to leave him—to leave him! "Stop!" he cried to them. They crawled and scratched, burrowing beneath his skin. "Stop! Stop!" His vision warped, filling an empty space above his head as he screamed. Or, at least he attempted to. Something lodged in his throat. He coughed. Again, again, again. Keeling over, holding shaking legs, he hacked into the floor. Something small and metallic fell from his open mouth. A bullet.

"I'm glad you're back," Feliciano smiled. Lovino wrapped him into a tight hug. His smell was so similar to the bedspread. His warmth filled Feliciano with hope. He closed his eyes, wrapping his arms tightly around his brother's shoulders. "I missed you," he cried. "I—I was thinking that you weren't going to come back."

Lovino let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "I'll always come back, Feli."

Feliciano smiled into his brother's chest. "Thank you," he sniffed. "Can you turn on the lamp now? I don't think I like the dark."

It must have been too much. When Feliciano blinked Lovino was gone, replaced by a tear-soaked pillow.

There was something hot in his gut. Feliciano looked down. It looked normal at first, but then he saw it. Burning through his skin was a hot ember. He poked at it. The pink spot dipped, just beneath his belly button. Using his nail, he tried to dig it out. To no avail. Now his hands were dirty.

Feliciano swirled and sang. _He_ looked at him weird. "You said you liked my dancing!" Feliciano laughed, putting out his hand. "Dance with me. The music is just so lovely tonight, don't you think?" A strong melody filled his ears. It was something that he had never heard before. The sound of a million beating drums, all enamored with one another but none following the same metronome. The sound of a thousand dying hearts. The hot ember grew brighter. Feliciano frowned down at it.

"Why can't you say my name?"

"I can say your name just fine."

"Then say it."

"That's what I thought."

"No, I can say it. I can!"

"Then why don't you?"

"I'm waiting for Lovi."

"That has nothing to do with it."

"Well, maybe it does!"

"Say my name!"

"Go away!" Feliciano threw the pillow across the room. It hit flat against the wall.

"You're alone."

"I know that."

"Then why don't you leave? He's not coming back."

"Why don't you leave?"

"I already told you. I love you."

Feliciano bit his cheek. "But don't you know—"

"Our love is a sin."

Feliciano nodded slowly. It was a sin. It had been a sin. It was okay now. Was it okay now? Blue eyes stared him down imploringly. Feliciano shook his head, closing his eyes. They followed his lids. Why did the ember in his gut burn so hotly? Why could he not reach it with his fingers?

Where was Lovino? Why had he not chased the shadows away yet? What time was it? Would it matter if Feliciano knew?

"Stop doing that."

"You sure are talkative!" Feliciano snapped over his shoulder.

His irritation grew with the glow. He wanted it to go away! He wanted it to stop hurting! But when the touches came he almost wanted it to never stop. Because if something brushed his arm he would feel it without even needing to look. Because when his back was pressed against with a black, tarred hand covered in flames all he could do was moan. He could feel the touches. Touches, always touching. He never wanted them to stop. A silver strand on the winds tongue, hot and moist and always, always blue.

Feliciano hated crumbs on the bed. It made him want to jump out of his skin.

He liked the thought of that. One slit down the middle, like a zipper, folding into the spine and just slipping out of the opening.

But he really didn't like the crumbs.

Teeth were weird.

"Hate him."

"But why?"

"Because if you don't hate him you'll like him."

"I do like him."

"So you don't like me?"

"Of course I like you!"

"You can't have both."

"I can have whatever I want!" Feliciano screamed. Glowing, always glowing, pink, just out of reach.

Feliciano coughed, choked. He needed to breathe but couldn't. His eyes watered. His tongue filled his mouth. Blue stared into him, focused, beautiful. Feliciano gasped.

"I'll try again later."

Touches, always touching. _He_ made everything okay. Feliciano's senses died on his tongues. He couldn't stop it, the sickness, the boiling need, the flames that burned and lapped.

The men that screamed and cried and bowed down to their god. Feliciano smiled at the image. It was his. Private and his and warm, because flames are hot when you stand so close. They had chosen their sin and they had paid and it was stunning.

Just like those eyes.

"Go away!"

"What's wrong!"

"You—this!"

"Say my name."

"Go away!"

"You're alone."

"Then stop talking!"

"Stop that."

The words swirled and spilled in front of him, making a mess on the floor. Feliciano hated crumbs. He balled the tattered comforter in his hands, his fingers lacing with small holes and getting stuck and the screams of irritation getting stuck in his throat because these seams were a lot like hair and no matter how much he pulled they just wouldn't fall and the irritation sat on his neck, between his atoms apple and his chest, pressing, pressing, tapping and he couldn't get his fingers unstuck and those peering blue eyes bore into him with a new emotion that Feliciano hadn't seen in them yet and it made him angry and he wanted everyone to stop talking to him because now those crumbs decided to whisper and murmur in their place and—

"GO AWAY! I KILLED YOU!"

Feliciano flew forward with his pen. If he couldn't erase him HE WOULD SCRIBBLE HIM OUT. Feliciano's wrist was caught. Touches, always touching. It was a sin! They would burn if he didn't go _now_. Feliciano had saved him! Had sacrificed him! Why was he back? Why was he deriding him?

The pressure on his wrist caused the boy to whimper and cry. The knife fell to the floor.

"Feliciano!" He snapped, cried. He was scared. Blue eyes were swimming, touches were cold. "Feliciano! Please, calm down!"

Ember, forevermore.

"I killed you." Feliciano choked. The pressure was softer but apparent. It grabbed his other wrist too. "I killed you. I killed you. I killed you."

"No, you didn't." Shuttering, petrified.

"I killed you. I killed you. I killed you."

"Feliciano, please snap out of it."

"Say my name."

"…killed you. I killed you. I killed you."

"Hate him."

"Feliciano!"

"He's never coming back."

"Snap out of it!"

"I love you."

"I love you!"

"I killed you."

"Please, stop!"

"Stop that!"

"I killed you."

"You're alone."

"Feliciano!"

"Dance with me."

"I killed you."

"I killed you."

"I killed you."

"You're alone, Feli. You should just give up."

"I killed you."

"Lovino's not coming back."

"I killed you."

"Are you prepared to live in the dark? I know how much you hate the dark, Feli. It's why you made me leave the light on."

"I killed you. I killed you. I killed you."

Touches, always touching. His face was cupped. Blue. Tears streaking and falling and fading with Feliciano's voice because even though his lips moved he was sure no sound was coming out now. They abdicated their position, giving way to the weak, breathy noise that was now in utterance. He wanted to plead. He wanted to say something else. Yet, for the first time in a thousand years, his mind was stuck on a single track. He had killed _him_. He had done it to save _his_ soul. He loved _him_. But He wouldn't allow him to love _him_. Because love is a sin.

"Listen to me," the voice was soft, waning, loving, sinning. "You didn't kill me. I'm okay."

"I kill—"

"No, Feliciano, you didn't. I just came back from the airport. I'm not dead."

The airport. Not dead. Why weren't these things registering? He knew what the words meant, but in what way did they fall into context? Feliciano's eyes fluttered into a sporadic blink.

"I—"

"Feliciano, please, snap out of it." The words trembled on his lips. He had grown up. "Please, Feliciano. I'm sorry I left. I won't again. Ever. I promise."

"You're alone."

"I know."

"Then why are you still talking to him?"

"To who?"

"Hate him."

"But I don't want to!"

"Then hate me."

"Feliciano!" His wrists had been let go, the pressure turning to the boy's shoulders as he was shaken. "Feliciano! Fuck! Breathe, Feliciano! Please, breath!" One hand moved from his shoulder and to his palm. His fingertips were numb to the touch, but his palm tickled. Something dull, metal. "Feliciano, please." The voice had grown helpless, crying.

Feliciano closed his eyes and cried. At first, all he could do was breath out, but soon he ran out of breaths to get rid of. He breathed in.

Ludwig wrapped him into a hug, holding him tighter than he ever had. He shook just as much as the Italian. Feliciano clung to the cross, pressing it to his heart.

"I killed him." Feliciano sobbed.

Ludwig didn't respond, He just smoothed out the boy's hair.

* * *

The clothes still itched, but Feliciano didn't tell them that. Ludwig had already put so much work into cleaning up his wounds. The knife hadn't done any real damage, and the scratches on his belly were swollen and they hurt, but Feliciano would survive. Ludwig kept a close watch on him. Feliciano didn't have to worry about being alone anymore.

"Where's Lovino?" he asked quietly.

"Feliciano, I told you already, we're trying to find him."

The _we_ he referred to was him and Carriedo, attended by a few nameless men Feliciano didn't care to look at or address. He was tired, he was worried. Where had Lovino gone off to?

Carriedo paced the living center. He looked concerned—to say the least. Messy curls on top of his head were fluffed, a result of his fingers trekking through them constantly; and, though he offered conversation Feliciano could tell that he had pulled away from all of them. Well, all of them but Feliciano.

He had been intrigued by Feliciano this whole time. He asked him questions once-in-a-while, too. Asking him how he felt. Asking him what that wound was from, or why that was bandaged. Ludwig had yelled at him to shut up, thankfully. Carriedo had pursed his lips, glaring silently at the German. Ludwig shot his own daggers back.

Feliciano stared into his hands. The small metal cross sat, catching the reflection of the light if he moved it just right. _Bleib Stark_. Still, he was in the dark to what that meant, but tracing the letters gave him some sort of comfort. An affluent distraction.

"Feli, are you sure he didn't tell you where he was going? Maybe you forgot?" Carriedo asked. He had taken a seat across the floor from Feliciano, and Feliciano could feel his eyes boring into him.

"No," Feliciano tried to keep his tone steady "he never told me anything."

"Well, you know him best, where do you think he would have gone?"

"I—I don't know," Feliciano admitted. He really hated being asked such questions. Where had they gone? Why would Feliciano know? When people walk out they didn't take baggage.

He bit his lip. He couldn't be thinking like that right now. Ludwig came back. He wasn't alone. He had promised to breathe.

"Antonio," Ludwig growled, "just get your men on it. Stop talking to him."

"Francis is on his way over," Carriedo mused over.

Feliciano furrowed his brows, thinking aloud: "why is he coming over?"

"Information," the shrug was in his voice. "And he's bringing food, too."

Feliciano nodded slowly. He didn't remember how long it had been since he had eaten.

* * *

"He could have fled?" Francis offered. "I really don't know what to tell you, _mon ami_."

Carriedo shook his head. "No, he wouldn't do that. Not now." There was something written on his face that Feliciano couldn't quite figure out. Something like fear but…different.

Feliciano offered Ludwig a small shaky smile, offering the German the rest of his dish. Ludwig waved it off gently, pushing it back towards the teen.

"You eat it."

"I can't eat anymore. I think I'm going to be sick."

Ludwig took it from him, placing it on the small coffee table. Feliciano tried to ignore how the fumes made him want to scratch again. But he had promised Ludwig that he wouldn't scratch anymore. Ludwig had already been kind enough to change the bandages twice.

* * *

Two days. That's how long Lovino had been missing. Feliciano fell into his habit of counting seconds again. It made him feel better.

Ludwig slept on the couch now. Anytime Feliciano made a sound he would come running, but he didn't dare share a bed with him. Feliciano couldn't remember whether he had told him not to, he just knew that he missed the warmth of someone lying beside him. He was better alone, though. Ludwig was safer out there.

Feliciano clung to the hot ember in his belly. He reminded himself again and again that it kept him from forgetting. He feared that if he forgot, he would hurt someone again. He would kill someone else.

The phantoms already grew past what he could count. How many people had he killed in nineteen years? No way had it been this many. How many murders did he witness that weren't his own?

The fact that he couldn't answer this made his skin crawl.

He had promised to stop scratching. Ludwig was getting really irritated with him now.

* * *

Feliciano didn't want to get out of bed. When Ludwig came in, telling him that they were going out to eat, he had just turned over, asking the German to leave. Ludwig didn't, standing at the doorway for a long while. He had disappeared for a moment, but only to return with a book.

Feliciano didn't sleep with the light off.

* * *

"Is Gilbert in Germany?" Feliciano asked quietly.

" _Ja_."

"Are you going to join him?"

"When you're in condition to travel."

Feliciano chewed on his lip. Ludwig was still planning to take him to Germany. Even after everything that's happened. Three days. It's been three days since Lovino went missing. Feliciano missed him terribly.

"Have you gotten any word back from him?" Feliciano tried. The light sound of a page riddled the air, implying that the German had either turned the page or closed his book. Feliciano wasn't sure which.

"No. I'm sure he hasn't gotten anywhere yet." Ludwig's voice was a sigh.

"What do you mean?" Feliciano turned to look at his companion. The dark bags had returned. Three days since Lovino disappeared; three days since Ludwig slept. Maybe more? A sharp pain jolted Feliciano's heart. It was his fault that the German wasn't sleeping properly. He called out too much in the night. But…he was afraid. What if he was silent for a whole night and Ludwig left too? Feliciano couldn't take another day left all by himself.

Ludwig fiddled with the closed book in his lap. It was paperback, more than likely something that he had picked up from the airport gift store. Feliciano wondered how many he had bought.

"Gilbert doesn't know what he's getting involved in," Ludwig said. "The Russians aren't a force to be reckoned with."

"Russians?"

Ludwig shook his head, throwing up a weary hand.

"Ludwig?"

The German responded with a small hum. Feliciano sat up, moving across the room to stand in front of him. "Lay down."

Ludwig shook his head again, another dismissive wave. "No, Feliciano, I—"

"It's okay. It's daytime, and you'll be right there if I need you. I'll sit right here. May I read your book?"

Ludwig blinked at him slowly. Deciding it okay, or maybe deciding it a necessity, Ludwig finally gave him. He offered Feliciano his book and his seat.

"Be, you didn't happen to pick up any romances?" Feliciano whined, looking over the blurb on the back. Leave it to Ludwig to pick up what had to be the most boring Biography in the world.

" _Nein_ ," Ludwig apologized. He lay so that he was facing Feliciano. Feliciano offered him a small smile and a reassuring nod.

"I'll wake you up if I need you." Ludwig stared at him, expectantly. "And I _promise_ not to scratch." Still, the German didn't close his eyes. "I have your cross right here," he dug it out of his pocket, "and I'll be sure not to spoil your story…or bend the pages."

Finally, seemingly satisfied, Ludwig nodded, closing his eyes with a deep nod. It was a few minutes before Feliciano was sure he was asleep. He had been rigid, still, as if listening for something—anything—from Feliciano. Feliciano made sure to keep deathly still. Watching, curious, relieved when the German finally relaxed, his breaths becoming less methodical.

Feliciano just watched him. It was a change of character, for sure. He wasn't poised for some sort of action, wasn't waiting to be attacked. The lines on his face smoothed out, leaving the young face just that—young. Feliciano chewed on his lip, knowing he would regret it later when Ludwig scolded him. Ludwig _was_ young. Older than Feliciano, but only by a couple of years. Yet, here he was. Shit thrown on his place despite him being the gentlest person Feliciano had ever met.

A small voice in the back of his head whispered: "Hate him," but he ignored it. He ignored everything that voice said because it wasn't real. It was just a figment of his imagination. Ludwig had made him repeat that a good million times. "It's just a figment of my imagination. He's not here. It's just…"

Of course, that didn't mean that it didn't feel real. It didn't mean that the guilt didn't eat him from the inside out, it didn't mean that it hadn't kept him from bowing his head in prayer. No, how could he talk to the Lord knowing what he knew now? Lovino was right, they're all going to hell.

That thought scared Feliciano more than anything else. He was going to hell. There was nothing he could do about it.

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTES**

 _And le calm before the storm starts now. Also: revisited. Yay. The little bit of insanity is all grouped together on purpose, by the way. It's_ supposed _to be confusing as all fuck._

 **HISTORICAL NOTES**

 _N/A_


	13. Rise

_He bowed his head, trembling fingers against steepled hands. Tears streamed down his face, but he didn't have the right to cry. He didn't have the right to pray, damn it! But…if there was a God maybe He would grant this one request._

* * *

Feliciano started, filling his lungs with a shallow breath. Ludwig moved, turning slightly in the sheets. Hazy eyes bleared through faint lashes at him. Feliciano quickly swiped at his cheeks. He didn't want Ludwig to worry. He didn't want Ludwig to wake up now, he was still too tired, it had only been a handful of hours. Feliciano offered the German what could be a soft countenance and a nod.

"Be, go—go back to sleep," he said, whispered.

"Feliciano—" Ludwig grunted, sitting on his elbows. Feliciano bound forward, pressing down on the blond's shoulders gently.

"Go back to sleep, Ludwig. Don't worry."

Ludwig blinked at him, staring, staring. Feliciano swallowed the rest of his words. Finally, Ludwig subsided with a short nod of his head.

Feliciano sat back, sitting on his qualms. The world was serene here. Ludwig sleeping, the light killing the shadows in the corners of the room. He breathed deeply, closing his eyes.

Still, his mind was plagued with traipsing apparition. They hurt. Yet he continued to watch, to absorb any and every piece of information he could. He was looking at his life. He was finally understanding. Best of all, he felt guilty about it all.

He decided they understood this. They understood that he felt guilty. Only, he didn't like that they did. Because _they_ weren't real anymore—at least, he rubbed his cross between his thumb and forefinger, not really here. They were figments, nightmares, plaguing his mind, send by his guilt. That's what they were because that's what Ludwig said they were.

Ludwig was calm, collected through it all, despite everything. Feliciano believed him. He had to. If Ludwig was wrong, then nothing in the world was right. Feliciano bore holes in his hands. They lay unresponsive, burning under his stare, bubbling, burning away; parchment above a flame.

A deep breath. Shaky, closed lids, rocking and crying but never uttering a sound. Ludwig was still too tired.

What kept him from forgetting everything that swirled in his head? He wanted to know. What was the difference between now and then? Chewing, biting, always irritating—but never _scratching_ because he _promised_ not to. What kept him from forgetting this, now, today? What kept the feeling of Arthur's flesh beneath his skin so fresh, the smell of sex so distinct in his nostrils, the taste of salt, copper, gunpowder. What held on to the memories of the executions, the practice shots, his grandfather's proud features? A pat on his head, a smile, love. Something akin to love, anyway. It wasn't really love. Feliciano wondered what was. Was love Lovino's outbreaks? His hitting, his harsh words, always more evasive than any blade? Was it Ludwig's blind obedience kindling into adoration—obsession? Was it the lust shared with him, was it bubbled laughs and stupid khaki shorts? The women he flirted with, the ones he let have an extra orange in Sicily or the girl in primary school that called him a brat before kissing him on the cheek? Were these examples of love? Were they what kept Feliciano's mind trudging along, through the filth and the slosh.

Or was love locked somewhere in his head, cajoling him into a state of ignorance? Was Feliciano his only true companion in this war? Or was he his worst enemy? Or did he lie somewhere in between; between the shades of grey and to goop and the teeth and the nails and the smiles and the winks.

Did love exist? Could humans ever be flawless enough to love? Truly?

Feliciano was beginning to think not.

Feliciano kissed his cross. The metal burned against bloodied lips. He wanted to believe that there was a love waiting for him. That the guilt in his gut would allow him redemption, but no string of excuses convinced him.

Lovino had lost his faith many years ago. Was that Feliciano's fault?

How many sins lay stacked against him? Dull, irritation, never scratching because he promised not to. How many crimes had he committed? Why did he commit them? What made this version in his mind different from the rest of him?

It was as if he had two personalities. Only, he didn't. His memories didn't plague him to be different, only…only vindictive. As if Lovino's lawlessness had spudded somewhere against his morality, poisoning him.

Feliciano shook his head. No, he couldn't blame this on Lovino. He couldn't blame this on anyone but himself.

His mother was still kind in his head. Her dark curls bounding around her shoulders, messy but never unorderly. A modest gown, a set gaze. She was strong, stronger than Feliciano could ever wish to be. He wished he could be. She was a flawless woman. Feliciano had looked up to her more than anyone, still did. The devotion to her still lay in his chest. A warm pressure, pushing, asking, always demand that he be modest and kind. "Your soul is precious, my love. Never sell it. It's not worth any Earthly price."

Feliciano had smiled. He had agreed. In the end, did he disappoint her?

Why did he remember _now_? What was _different_?

Ludwig stirred. Amber eyes locked with his figure. Ludwig was different. Was it Ludwig that made his recollection so powerful, almost passionate?

How many memories really belonged to him? They couldn't all be his.

Was it Ludwig that kept him grounded? Was it a good or a bad thing, if so?

Could Feliciano get rid of the memories by getting rid of Ludwig?

Fuck, he promised he wouldn't scratch. Weighing down his hand, Feliciano tensed, holding his breath. Spotted vision was something of a comfort. No, he wouldn't hurt Ludwig. He liked Ludwig. Ludwig was calm, Ludwig was right, Ludwig kept him from hurting others. Ludwig was his angel and it was his job to protect him.

Maybe there was still hope for the sobbing Italian. If the Lord send Ludwig to him, maybe recovery was still possible. Plausible? Feliciano dug his nails into the bottom of his thighs. He was dressed in boxer shorts and a wrinkled dress shirt. It was uncomfortable, but he refused to take either article off. For fear he would pick.

He needed to stop scratching. Ludwig would be angry. Feliciano didn't want Ludwig to grow antagonistic against him. Ludwig was his only friend. Feliciano liked him. He was Feliciano's angel.

He ignored the voices in his head. Ludwig said they weren't real. They felt real, but Ludwig was more real. Ludwig would protect him. Feliciano just had to play the soldier.

* * *

"Stop!" Feliciano screamed, flying forward. "Don't hurt him!"

They weren't real. They felt real. They looked real. Vexed, envious of his position, of his angel.

"You can't have him!"

Ludwig shot into a sitting position, knocking his head against Feliciano's—as Feliciano had been actively trying to save the German from the descending shadows. When had the lamp stopped being strong enough?

Upon contact Feliciano fell back, crying out in pain. Ludwig held his head in his hands for a moment, muttering something to himself in German, before turning his full attention to Feliciano. "Are you okay?" he demanded.

Feliciano, rubbing his forehead, nodded. "I—I'm—go back to sleep, Ludwig," he sniffled past the tears that brewed in his eyes. Fresh from the collision, from the fear in his heart.

"Why did you yell?" Ludwig threw his legs over the side of the bed. A small, voiceless action that told Feliciano the blond wouldn't be going back to sleep.

"I—I just –there was—I'm sorry for waking you up it's just that-!" Feliciano attempted to communicate, but every time a word came ready to his mind it was thwarted by a sort of fog that encapsulated his skull. They weren't real. Feliciano knew this. The voices weren't real, the shadows weren't real, the swirling doubts and trepidation was a trick of his mind. Ludwig had told him this. But it was different when anxiety controlled your actions and stifled your voice. "Your," what a silly way to include the audience.

Feliciano knew that the tension in his shoulders would pass. Ludwig told him it would. Ludwig hugged him and told him everything would be alright because the things he was going through could be worked out. He told Feliciano that he didn't have to forget to be happy. He told Feliciano that he didn't have to hurt himself to stop feeling numb.

Because everything would be okay. Feliciano just had to take the first step to get better. Acceptance.

Feliciano stared at the ground now, attempting to hide the places on his arms and legs that he had been scratching. The bandages were peeling, blotched.

Ludwig let out a long sigh. There was a slight sound, Feliciano wasn't sure if he had heard it, but when Ludwig stern voice told him to sit down Feliciano followed orders, sitting in his chair. He still refused to look at Ludwig. He couldn't. Shame boiled his heart, squeezing him to the floor.

Gentle hands followed his bandages. "You did very well," Ludwig commented.

"What?"

Ludwig leaned forward, catching a panicked glance that was inevitably and firmly fixed in Feliciano's lap. Ludwig's eyes persuaded him. He still looked tired, but better. He was offered Feliciano the smallest of smiles, lines trekking his face once more. "I expected a lot worse. You did very well, Feliciano, thank you."

Relief flooded him, a drug seeping from his pores. "I—I'm sorry. I tried—"

" _Ja_ , I know. Don't worry about it."

The last of bandages were used. Feliciano thank him again. And again. He really couldn't stop doing that.

"Feliciano?" Ludwig asked gently. "Are you hungry?"

He really wasn't. Not sure if he could stomach anything but the oxygen he sucked down, he said yes anyway. Ludwig had to have been hungry. Together they scavenged the kitchen. No one seemed to be around. For the first time since Feliciano had been forced here no one busied themselves on the table. With drugs, paperwork, artillery. It was bare.

Feliciano stopped in his tracks. "Ludwig?" He wasn't sure why they talked to each other like this, like they were moments away from losing a sense of one another. Always starting timid, always formally addressing one another.

Ludwig hummed back his response, coming up short, his nose stuck in the cupboard.

"No one's here. Do—Do you think that we—that I…can leave?"

Ludwig paused. "Go where?" he asked slowly, pulling away from his search.

"I—I don't know," Feliciano admitted. "I just—they're gone, looking for Lovino. And—And I haven't been able to leave unless I was with Carriedo or—or you—"

"I'm not letting you go off on your own." His tone was stern.

"No—No! It's just—" chewing, biting, always irritating. Another dart; tap, tap. He wrung his hands in front of him, ignoring how much it hurt. "I just—I just want to go out for—you can come, but—Ludwig I don't know. I just don't want to be here. I want to be here when Lovino returns but—but what if he doesn't, Ludwig? What if he went back to _Nonno_? What if he—what if he—"

Of course, this was about Lovino. Feliciano had been avoiding the topic for a long time now.

Ludwig stopped him. "Feliciano, if you want to leave we can. If Antonio tries to stop us—"

"Please don't hurt him!"

"Feliciano, if you want to leave we can."

"I—I don't want to not come back. I—I'm worried about—"

"Lovino, I know."

"And I want to be here when he comes back. If he comes back. It's been more than three days so I'm sure he'll be back soon. So, I want to come back. I just—I just want to leave, too." What he really wanted to do was pull his hair out of his head because he didn't know what he wanted. His lungs were stale, his body was jumping and shrill, his head weighed him down, coaxing him back to bed. Everything fought with itself. He wanted to stay, to go, to wait, to something! But this, sitting here, was killing him.

Ludwig calmed him down again. Feliciano offered him a deepest frown. "I'm sorry," he whimpered, "I don't know. I—"

Ludwig shook his head. "You don't need to know."

Feliciano nodded his head, wiping away his tears. "Okay." If Ludwig believed it it must be true.

So, they stayed in the house. Ludwig dug out a few sad cans, forcing them open with a dull can opener. Feliciano put his spoon to his lips but rarely did anything pass. Ludwig ate like he hadn't in days. For all Feliciano knew he hadn't.

Feliciano really needed to think more about Ludwig's wellbeing.

"Are you still tired?" Feliciano asked.

"No, I'm alright." He was lying. Fatigue still seemed to pull him down, a string attached to the center of his forehead, pulling, tugging, always apparent.

Feliciano opened his mouth to argue, but the door to the living area opened.

Carriedo and Bonnefoy made their entrance. Bonnefoy kicked a toy out of his way, muttering something about kids being a nuisance—though there hadn't been a kid there since Roy stopped coming. Since Roy had disappeared. Since Feliciano—

"Any luck?" Ludwig asked. Both he and Feliciano sat in the living room, hunched over their cans on opposite sides of the room.

Carriedo ran a hand through his hand. "No. He's evasive for sure. We can't take too much more time on it, either. There's a lot of fight back from Biondelli's underboss. He's planning on swarming us."

"You," Ludwig corrected.

Carriedo shot him a glare. "No, us. You and Feli are in this just as much as I am."

Ludwig lifted his head. Small, but Feliciano watched. He watched. Because they weren't real, but Ludwig was, and Ludwig's defiance was something of a condolence. His eyes were stone again—when had they stopped being that?—and his lips became a tight line.

Once again he held back what he wanted to say.

"We're doubling arms in the Casino. You two are going to join them. I may need your guys' help—"

"Feliciano is in no state to help you with anything."

"Feli," Carriedo turned to him, exasperated. They weren't real, they couldn't hurt him, but this man? This man standing in front of him now, with wide arms and the messiest chestnut hair Feliciano had ever seen, could _he_ hurt him? "You understand the stakes now, don't you?"

"I—"

"You remember, don't you?"

"Yes—I—"

"Then you know what you can do and what you have to do!"

"No, but—I—"

"And you understand that if you don't help me then if Lovino gets hurt by these men it's _your_ fault."

They weren't real. They couldn't hurt him. They couldn't hurt Ludwig, no matter how much _he_ seemed to want to, they couldn't touch the world that Feliciano could. They could whisper to him, they could irritate him, they could turn anything into a thing of comfort. Because they were him. That's what Ludwig told him. How many conversations had he and Ludwig shared? Was Ludwig real, in the dark of the night, padding down his hair and offering small comforts, a bang in a world of shuffling darkness, a spark. Was he real then, when he told him that he loved him, was he real when he tore away his knife, when he promised him that he would never leave. Was he real _then_? Could he have hurt him? Did those with a capacity to hurt also have a capacity to save, and to soothe?

If they weren't real; then how did Feliciano end up hurt? How did his train of thought end up in pieces in the water, short bursts of nothingness clouding what could—should—be a viable thought process?

How was it that through it all, that though they weren't real and couldn't hurt him-because they were him and he was the only thing that could ever truly love himself—that he was lost for a response. Ludwig screamed at him with his stare. Yelling, a bang, a spark, an angel, an obedient fool that had become enamored with the idea of saving him—from himself or from the world?

Feliciano shook his head, conflict ostensible. Lovino was at stake. His brother, the one that was always there for him, the one that would be back because he knew how much Feliciano needed him. He knew. He would be back—be home. Lovino. "I'll help however I can."

Carriedo offered him something of a smile. It was still dragged down, still ruffled by scrubbed cheeks and emerald eyes that rimmed and dipped into a pool of darkness, but it was there. Almost proud. Like his grandfather's.

Who said that his grandfather hadn't truly cared for him?

"Thank you, Feli. We set up tonight." Feliciano nodded, ignoring Ludwig.

Ludwig wasn't his only angel. He still had a brother to protect.

* * *

"Why does it hurt so much?" Feliciano sobbed.

"You can't think about it so much, Feliciano," Ludwig ordered.

"But how do I not think about it?" he demanded. "How do I—"

"Say my name," it cajoled in the back of his head.

"How do I drown it out when it's always there? Always speaking, always trying to hurt you? I don't want you to get hurt!"

"It can't hurt me, it's not real."

"But, Ludwig, _I'm_ real. What it—what if—"

Ludwig pressed a tentative kiss against his forehead. There was something the German wasn't telling him. "I have faith in you, Feliciano. You'll work through this."

* * *

 _Chica con Suerte_ twinkled just like it always did, the omission of an oncoming war nowhere to be seen. More people than usual stalked around the corners. Feliciano felt like he had been thrown into a vast ballroom. It circled around his heart with a flame of nostalgia, but he didn't know why. He didn't really care, either. The gun in his boot was too distracting.

Was he going to use it?

He walked through its corridors, passing by loud machines and quiet tables, his hands fidgeting with the cuff of his shirt. He ignored the looks of the women that he had waited beside-the golden trays and alluring bottles. He simply walked. Stand tall, don't get comfortable, don't get shot. These were his orders, each from a separate entity. They were all real, he thinks.

He was on the lookout for anything suspicious.

"I doubt you'll see them," Carriedo had warned him, "but look out for any strange tattoos."

"Why?"

"Because it's the Bōryokudan we're looking out for."

Chewing, biting, always irritating.

Biondelli had set his legacy in all major parts of the world. Feliciano couldn't imagine the rivalry that Alfred had set with him. Something so personal, so rooted that the man gave up everything he built just to make sure the American bastard would be taken out. It scared Feliciano because he had gotten involved. He had killed Biondelli, taking the glory from both parties. He held onto the guilt. He walked.

His eyes open, his mind on his gun, his hands playing with the cuff of his jacket. Sighing he took a moment to look down at the ground, only to be rammed into. Sleek shoes, navy blue Ring Jacket. Something lodged itself in Feliciano's throat.

"So sorry!" The man exclaimed. Feliciano threw his hands up innocently.

"No, no, I'm sorry!" he gushed. The man that stood in front of him was small of frame, even smaller than Feliciano, with dark hair.

Feliciano eyed him suspiciously. He was obviously of Asian descent. From the smallset eyes to the obviously foreign attire, it was unmistakable. Japanese. "Please forgive me! Let me get you a drink?" he offered quickly, motioning over one of the girls that had been staring him down.

"Oh, no, I really must be going."

"Don't you know it's rude to refuse in Italy?" Feliciano chirped, smiling at Alexandra, the redhead that hustled over. "Some wine please."

"What kind?"

"Surprise me, _Bella_ ," he sent her a playful wink. His heart constricted. What was love? Was it the women in Sicily with the extra oranges or the girl that called him a brat? He grabbed the Japanese man's forearm before he could wriggle away. "Come sit with me! I love meeting new members of the Casino. Did you move here recently? I haven't seen you around lately."

"I—I'm just visiting."

"From where? Are you from China, you look Chinese?"

The man sent him something of an annoyed glance before shaking his head. "No. I'm from Japan."

"Oh! Japan's cool. I've never been out of Italy. Is it different here than there?"

" _Hai_."

"What?"

"Yes."

Feliciano giggled. "Oh, what is it with people always saying yes in a different language. Your Italian is just fine, but you insist on saying something different. _Ja_ , _Hah_ —"

" _Hai_."

" _Si, si_ , so what brings you to Naples?"

The Japanese man had recollected himself. The pair sat at a small table, set aside for spectators to watch a nearby poker table. The table was empty. They were alone.

"I have just recently graduated," he shared. His countenance was set. "I decided to take a small vacation. Italy is such a beautiful country."

Feliciano leaned onto the palm of his hand. "Isn't it? Breathtaking, really, I don't think I'll ever be able to leave! What did you graduate with?"

"A law degree."

"Oh, that's fun! There's a lot of lawyers popping up around Italy, lately. Maybe you planned to have your vacation turn into a business meeting?"

The Japanese eyed him.

"Oh, _Bella_!" Feliciano cooed as Alexandra turned up. She set down two glasses and a bottle of Chianti. The red liquid pooled into their glasses, dark almost purple when she poured it. "You spoil us, _Bella_ ," Feliciano thanked.

Alexandra sent him a small smile, he returned it sevenfold. She would get the hint: _Go get Carriedo_. She nodded.

"Of course, _Signore_. Would you like anything to eat?"

"That would be wonderful. Thank you."

She nodded, a little deeper than Feliciano had ever seen her do before, before scurrying off down the way. Feliciano almost sighed in relief when he saw her peel away from the bar and head towards Carriedo's office.

Of course, he wouldn't be there right now, he would be someone on the ground floor, eyes open, but at least he knew she understood him.

"Don't be shy," Feliciano turned back to his company, "drink up!"

* * *

The man hadn't touched his wine, was short to answer, and had given Feliciano a fake name. Feliciano knew nothing about him and a feeling of shame bit down when he realized that he could have been wrong. The Japanese mafia was on their tale, but that didn't mean every Japanese person in Italy was. It was extremely suspicious that this Japanese man happened to be in this Casino on this day, but coincidences were bound to pop up when one was suspicious of everyone.

Feliciano respected the wine in his hand, chewing, always chewing. What was he to do about this? If this man was a part of those looking to strike, then he couldn't let him go, but if he wasn't then he was holding a man that didn't need to be held. Feliciano dulled off some useless verbatim, smiling and acting like his whole world wasn't at stake. Lovino was somewhere—he could have fled. He could have left Italy. He could be under a bridge overdosed and dead. Or he could be in trouble here. Feliciano hated all the options. He just wanted his brother back. He just wanted Lovino.

"I really must be going," the Japanese man muttered.

Feliciano could feel the tension returning to his shoulder. Ludwig had said that it would go away, but what he forgot to mention was that is would be back again and again. Feliciano grinned. "Oh, yes of course! I guess I've held you past what I should have." He put his hand out. "It was wonderful meeting you."

The Japanese man nodded. He hesitated before taking the eager Italian's hand. Feliciano jumped his opportunity. Grasping the man's hand with an iron hold, he pulled it towards himself and used his other hand to slide back the sleeve of the foreign suit.

Tattoos, coiling around pale skin.

Feliciano had his answer. He allowed his grin to grow, something bordering on sinister if his head didn't wrap around the pistol in his boot with anticipation and dread. "So, tell me again why you're here?"

The Japanese man stole his appendix back. His face grew serious.

"I wouldn't do that," Carriedo laughed. Feliciano didn't need to look behind him to know who it was, or to imagine the gun that found its way into the air. "Good job, Feli!" He chirped.

The Japanese man halted, his hand moments away from dipping into his coat. A dark glare pointed itself over Feliciano's shoulder.

"It's been a while, no?" Carriedo asked cheerily. "Kiku Honda, no?"

" _Hai_ ," the man responded.

"Tell me, how is your brother."

"I am not here to make small talk."

"No, of course, you wouldn't be." The sharp snap of a hammer being put into place. "You're here to clean up Biondelli's trail."

"I'm not here for Biondelli," Kiku sneered. "We've stopped working with him."

"Then why are you here?"

His hand had been a moment away from slipping into his jacket, Carriedo had been caught off guard. Coincidence or skill, Feliciano didn't care. All that he cared about now was that, for the millionth time in his life, a gun was on him. He couldn't move, he couldn't grab his gun. He wasn't quick enough.

That didn't keep his instincts from falling into action. It didn't keep the toe of his boot from kicking the bottom of the table, from causing just enough havoc to throw both Carriedo and Honda off. It didn't keep him from grabbing his own pistol. Keep skilled fingers from wrapping around the grip, slender fingers from finding their place, shoulders from protecting themselves.

A kick.

Kiku Honda was dead.

* * *

Feliciano shrugged off Carriedo. "Stop," he twirled around, glaring at him. "Just—stop. I don't need you to congratulate me!"

Another life. Ludwig hadn't been able to stop him, his guilt hadn't been able to stop him. The dawning ghost of the Japanese man swirled in his head. He wanted to blink it away, _cry_ it away, but he felt empty. He couldn't get comfortable. He turned away from Carriedo, slamming his fist into the wall. He cried out, throwing his fist back and repeating the action again, again, again. His fist had already been bruised from his incident in the basement, swollen, skin seemingly limp and lifeless and loose as it drooped away from his knuckles. The knew pounding of pain instilled a sharp abhorrence for himself deep in his gut.

Good.

It worked.

"Feli," Carriedo said softly as Feliciano fell against the wall, sinking down to hold his head in his hands. "You had no choice. It was a kill or be killed situation."

"No!" Feliciano screamed again, shaking into his knees. He pounded his heel against the ground. "No! I don't need your excuses!" He threw a glance at the Casino owner. He had a face of worry assembled, but something lay beneath his features. Something victorious, something lax. The suit he wore was crème, contrasting with his tanned skin and strong features. He looked like his position, and his green eyes just stared, lips parting for just a moment before closing. "I don't want your excuses." Feliciano rejected. He turned his gaze back to his knees. "I can't—I won't remember if I don't focus."

Carriedo sat beside him with a sigh. Feliciano tensed, but he slowly allowed himself to warm up to the other man's presence.

"I don't want to be like this," Feliciano admitted quietly. "I don't—I don't want to kill people."

"None of us do—" he cut off, laughing darkly, "well that's a lie, I guess. Plenty are here for that. But, that's not my main business-or your grandfather's main business. You know that."

"Money and power is your main business," Feliciano mumbled to himself. "That leads to death. It—It always has."

"And it always will," Carriedo agreed. "I don't make the rules. The world—" he cut off, playing with his words, rolling them around his mouth thoughtfully, "the world sucks. Is shit. If we're not doing it the government is." There was a more serious tone one the last note, added in as an afterthought, but carrying more weight than anything else. "They'll screw you over any way they can, Feli, but I know you and me, we're not like normal people. We're not going to be pushed around."

"Why become your enemy?" Feliciano demanded. Demanded from himself, from Carriedo. "Why push others around just to prove your strength? Why kill—" his voice, words, broke. He shook his head, clamping his mouth shut.

"Because that's how you gain strength. People don't just grow bullet-proof. They practice their aim so that they can shoot before they get shot. Feliciano, we're on the same side here. I want to recruit you full time. I want to merge the Vargas and Carriedo families. You're your grandfather's heir. You're on the road to recovery! To meeting your full potential! You have no idea how proud Roma is; how proud Lovino is."

Feliciano dug his nails into his head. "No," he breathed.

"What?"

"No!" A paroxysm of anger steered Feliciano from his position, boiling from his skin as he flew to his feet, standing over Carriedo. "Lovino's not proud of me! He's not proud of _this_! He left because of it, he left because of me! Because—Because—"

Because Feliciano was a monster.

Feliciano held his anger in his fist, slamming it into the wall once more. Biting down on his lip he turned.

"Where are you going?"

Feliciano didn't answer, he just kept walking.

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTES**

 _The second half of this chapter made me feel better, coming off the jaunt of the last chapter_ _😊 Action til the end, amIright? Uhm, I should warn you guys that the next two chapters deal with some heavy shit, though. But then we get the resolution chapter which is nice._

 _Drop a review (if you don't like reviewing because it makes you anxious that the author is going to talk to you, put three asterisks (***) at the beginning of the review and I promise I won't respond *lessthanthree*) if you want to! If not, don't, that's okay too. Thanks so much for reading this far. We're heading into the final stretch! I still can't believe I've gotten almost 60K written in under a month!_

 **HISTORICAL NOTES**

 _Just a quick one:_

 _The Japanese have organized crime. In the late 20th century it was noted that it became very mafia-y in the ways that it ordered its hierarchies and worked. They deal with a lot of what the Italian mafia deal with—drugs, girls, gambling, extortion, etc—but the police in Japan are, like, hella lax with them. They are also known to do charitable things, like donations and delivering supplies to earthquake victims. Affiliates are often seen bearing a body of ink to indicate that they're a_ yakuza _member, so that's why Kiku had tattoos._


	14. Bulletproof

_"I don't give a shit what you have to say."_

 _"Please, Lovi-"_

 _"No. You don't get a say in this."_

* * *

Feliciano swerved around the corner, stepping into the main foyer of the Casino. They stood around him. They watched. He balled his fists. It hurt, it tore him apart, he clung to the pain. Lovino thought him a monster. Lovino left because of him. Lovino was never coming back. Tighter, tighter, sharper as the words cut into his skin, his heart, his soul. The world broke into affliction and terror. The dead, brown eyes followed him from the table he had left the corpse. Drooping heads and glazed expressions—laughter and talking! None of it was real! He clawed at his arms, under the coat, under the bandages. None of it was real! He trusted Ludwig because if Ludwig didn't know then no one did and Lovino thought him a monster and was never coming back. People stood around him, watching. Always watching. He stopped in his isolation, attempting to catch his breath.

"Say my name," _he_ said again. Feliciano shook his head, hunched over, breathing breathing breathing. "You've said it before." The voice continued, taunted. "I know that you remember doing it. Just say it again, Feli."

"No!" Feliciano screamed, cupping his ears. It didn't help. "You're not real!" The world spun and dipped—and he was tired of _spinning and dipping and being unable to find stable ground_. Kiku Honda was dead. Kiku Honda had come to kill him. Lovino thought he was a monster. Lovino was right! Feliciano screamed, pulling at strands of hair. "You're not real! You're not real!" Lovino was dead. Kiku Honda was dead. Arthur Kirkland was dead. "You're not real!"

"Say my name."

Feliciano staggered forward. A silver strand of hair arrogantly teasing him. Balling his fist, throwing it forward, screaming, flying, clinging to the pain. "You're not real!" he wailed, ripping, ripping, scratching, bleeding. His fist made contact. Only, it didn't, because _he_ wasn't real! Feliciano knew that because Ludwig had told him so. Feliciano threw another punch. Each movement of his hand was agony. Sharp, broken, _breaking_. Another punch. He followed _him_ to the ground. Punching now with both fists, his vision bursting as red spattered his clothes, the dull thuds of his anguish sinking into the delicate floors of the casino.

It wasn't real, none of it was! Ludwig had told him to ignore them. To ignore their torment! Feliciano beat and beat, pounding his fists, cracking his knuckles into the apparition beneath him. They weren't real! Kiku was dead! Then why was he staring, looking at the teen like he knew more! "You're not real!"

The figure had long since stopped writhing beneath him when he sat on his heels. He closed his eyes. The voice was gone, _his_ voice was gone. A smile graced the Italian's lips.

Ludwig had told him to ignore them. He was wrong. A laugh. Feliciano could beat them! He could! And…and if he could beat them he could get better! Shakily he stood.

He would show Lovino that he could get better. The imagined corpse stayed stubborn in its appearance, but Feliciano kicked it aside.

Where had Ludwig gone? Feliciano had seen Ludwig talking to Carriedo earlier. Had Carriedo sent him away? Feliciano smoothed down his coat. He needed to calm down. Ludwig would get worried. A giddy sort of happiness bubbled into his throat. Lovino didn't have to leave!

Lovino was his beacon of hope. If Lovino believed in him than anything was possible. Then he could truly recover. He would go back on the medication, he would see a doctor—maybe he could even convince Lovino to see one too! Maybe Lovino would finally swallow his pride and start taking the medication that he needed to, too! They could compromise!—he would do whatever Lovino told him to because they were always there for each other when they were kids. Lovino knew this. Lovino would help him get better.

Where was Ludwig!

Feliciano shook his head, falling back a step. He needed to focus. He needed to get back to the house. To his home because home was where ever his brother was.

People still stood around him, watching, admiring. Feliciano sent Alexandra a smile. "Ah, _Bella_!"

He was cut off by the gunshots. Alexandra fell to the ground, crimson, distant eyes and dull cracks as the side of her head hit the counter. Feliciano's heart stopped.

Kiku Honda had come to kill him.

Kiku Honda was dead.

There was still another group looking to attack the casino—it was why Feliciano was there.

Feliciano reached for his gun. It was nowhere to be found. Where was his gun?

At the table where he had abandoned the corpse.

"Everyone down!" a woman demanded from the main entrance. Long brunette locks were haloed by the outside world, a long rifle balanced on her hip. Men swarmed the area.

Feliciano ran forward, sight set for the lonesome table he and Kiku had been chatting at. He dove forward.

Brown eyes. Starring, starring. His pale skin had grown a shade lighter—though it didn't help that the hole in his face was so dark. Feliciano reached out with timid fingers, but the bruises and stubborn redness of his mind hadn't gone away yet. They only made Kiku's features look ghastly.

"Get some rest," Feliciano muttered over his shoulder to the Japanese man as he fumbled for his gun. "You don't look too good." How did he expect to be a good lawyer if he paled in such simple situations?

Feliciano quickly left his friend, checking that a bullet was in the chamber.

"Get down!" Someone shouted.

Feliciano stood up straight. Irritation attempted to break through, but he was good, he was getting better. Clinging to the pain in his hand Feliciano pointed and shot. He would remember because he paid attention to everything. He wasn't mad. He was getting better!

Something tore through his hip. Gasping, the momentum threw the upper half of his body forward, pushing away the lower, planting him into the floor. He sputtered and coughed. The fire that throbbed through him was the most intense thing Feliciano had ever felt. He pressed his hand into the ground, screaming, crying, tears. Shakily he pushed himself up, hanging his head between his shoulders. He fell.

A barrel of a gun pressed in between his shoulder blades. "Feliciano Vargas." The woman.

Feliciano watched her combat boots walk around him. His vision wobbled and dipped. He blinked. Again. He touched his hip. Warm, wet. Chewing, irritating, always tap, tap, tapping. "It's been a while." Boots met knees, his chin was grabbed.

The woman was attractive. Her features were strong, her eyes something of their own kind. They demanded respect. They forced him to stare, to get lost.

Suddenly they softened. She smiled. Her features were so lovely when they smiled like that. So kind. So motherly. "Are you alright?" she asked. Her voice was a million miles away.

Feliciano couldn't remember deciding to answer, but he did. "I want Lovi," he cried.

"Oh, you guys will be back together soon. Don't worry."

His cheeks were scrubbed with dirt-streaked hands. "I—I don't want to be here anymore! I want mama and Lovi," he demanded. Irritation.

"Don't glare at me like that, young man," the woman admonished. "Your grandfather brought you here because he wants to spend time with you. You should appreciate that. He's a busy man."

"I know—but!"

"Now run along."

"But-!"

"Go! He's waiting."

"I—I don't—I don't want to go!"

"Feliciano," her tone was black.

Feliciano shook his head. "Please, I don't want to. Lovino thinks I'm a monster and I just want to get better."

He moved his hand from his hip, swatting at her. "I don't want to go!" he decided. "I just want to be with Lovino!"

The woman stumbled onto her backside, kicking away from him. Her smile was gone. It twisted into something of fear. It stared. "Feliciano?" Her words quivered, careful. "Let me help with your wound. It's going to get infected."

He cried. "I don't care. I just want Lovi."

"I know you do, but your brother is just fine. He's meeting some new kids."

"I—I don't want him—"

"It's not your decision. Now, where did you put your gun?"

Feliciano shook his head, holding the weapon tightly between his chest and the floor. He wouldn't give it to her. "No, this is my gun," he mumbled. "I—I need it. I can defeat them. I can beat them. I can get—"

Indigo eyes eddied before him. "Please don't do it," it was her voice, but she was behind him. When had Feliciano put his head into the floor? He strangled his gun.

"He's a rat," _Nonno_ said, unamused. "My boy, go ahead."

"No!" Feliciano screamed. _Nonno_ wasn't there, Feliciano's eyes were shut. Indigo, soft features, a shame for the fingers. "No—" it was a breath. He opened his eyes.

Elizaveta trembled before him. " _You_!" He demanded. He lurched forward, forgetting the pain in his hip, in his hands, in his stomach and in his arms. "You! You helped him! You—You!"

"Feliciano, please," she threw up her hands, "please, I never meant to-!"

"Fiend!" he screamed, grabbing her by the neck.

Anger, so much of it. It drowned him. Spread it's fingers wide, catching him in the web. He couldn't feel the inside of her throat because his fingertips didn't feel like the rest of his body did. He could only watch. A smile, motherly and kind, turned venomous, turned sad as the love of her life was tortured in front of her—when she held his head under the water knowing full well that she could have helped him!

Feliciano let her go, her head thudding against the floor. He scratched and he picked, breathing, in, out.

The world was silent. All he could hear was her crying.

"No! Please don't do it!"

"He's a rat."

"I'll kill you!"

He couldn't breathe. Water filled his nose, his mouth. He kicked and tried to scream, but his voice was lost in the panes of the barrel.

"You killed him!"

Feliciano hadn't killed anyone. He fought, he fought, he choked.

 _It had been Lovino who had saved him. It had been Lovino who had pulled the crazed woman off his back. By the time Feliciano had fallen from the pale, by the time he could blear through soaking red locks, Lovino had already scared her away. Tears streamed down his brother's face, and his body trembled, and when Lovino fell to him, wrapping his arms around him and asking again and again if he was okay, Feliciano knew that he was. That so long Lovino was there he'd be safe._

Feliciano needed Lovino. Feliciano needed him so that he could get better.

He stood, holding his gun in front of him. The swarming men were busy with Carriedo's forces, maybe Feliciano could get out.

He didn't get more than a few feet before something broad hit him in the back of the head. He fell forward, always falling, black clouding and bursting around his consciousness before he even his the ground.

* * *

Fleece scratched against Feliciano's cheek. The air was humid. Feliciano took a deep breath in, filling his lungs with the moisture. His whole body hurt, throbbed. He didn't want to move—even breathing made him want to cry.

"Feliciano?" A thick accent. French. Feliciano didn't answer; he couldn't because every moment he woke up a little more and everything hurt a little more. "Feliciano, wake up," Francis soothed. It was strange, this man in a situation where he wasn't smirking or planning or cheating. The cloth stopped against Feliciano's skin, hovering inches above. "Come now, mon Cherie. I can see that you're awake."

Feliciano wondered _how_. Slowly cooperating, the teen allowed his eyelids to peel away. The world was hazy, but Feliciano didn't know if the fog was just in his head or not.

"Good," Francis cooed. Bonnefoy cooed. Feliciano blinked, teeth finding lips to chew on before he exploded. "You've likely got a concussion. You need to stay awake."

Feliciano's top had been peeled away, bandages gone; he refused to look down, afraid to see the glowing embers just beneath his skin. He was getting better.

Feliciano had been propped against the wall of the casino bathroom. The sink steamed up the room, fogging the large piece of glass with wallops and clouded clinkers, making it so Feliciano couldn't see anything of a reflection. Francis kneeled beside him. He worked with skill as he cleaned the Italian's wounds, concentrated eyes turned towards healing.

The boy watched drearily for a while. However, somewhere down the line the expensive throbbing that spread throughout his body mixed with the apparent moisture of the heat and he found himself nodding off again. "Feliciano," Bonnefoy commanded. "You need to stay awake."

He didn't want to. It was more comfortable when he didn't.

Francis said something in French—which Feliciano knew was a curse word because he had learned all the mean French words from the mean kids in his school—before sighing and sitting back. "Lovino's going to kill me."

Feliciano snapped his eyes open, or, at least he meant to. His conscious started working full-time again, but his body still lagged. "Lovino?" he had managed to say. "You know where—Lovino is?" The pain in his hip was spreading like a swarm of bees, wasps, inhabited his skin. Pricking and searching.

" _Oui_ ," Francis admitted. "I found him when we went searching for him the first day."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Your brother's in no better shape than you, mon Cherie. He needed some time alone."

Feliciano shook his head weakly. "No, no…we, we need to be together. We're always—for each other, we're always—"

"Feliciano, stay awake."

"Where is he now?"

"He's probably going back to the den," Francis said. "I told him what you were doing here. He freaked out and tried to stop you, but by the time we got there, you guys had already left. I promised him that I wouldn't let you do anything—" Francis cut himself off. "Ludwig's waiting out front with the car. Lay low and we should be able to get out of here alive."

"They're still here?" Feliciano asked, attempting to sit a bit straighter now.

"And it doesn't look that they'll be leaving until they get what they want. They've put the whole place under seize."

"What do they want?"

"That doesn't matter. That's Tonio's problem. Let me finish here and we'll leave."

Feliciano nodded as the man went back to his movements. He tried to keep from crying when the pain got to such tremendous levels, and to some extent he succeeded; yet, nothing was about to stifle the hope and wonderous happiness Feliciano felt when he learned that his brother was okay—that his brother was worried. Nothing.

* * *

Francis had given Feliciano his overcoat—a thin blue fabric, scratchy—because Feliciano's tops reeked of blood. The young Italian was too distracted to properly appreciate it. Francis led the way the whole time, Feliciano falling back with a hand bracing where he had been shot.

Together they practically crawled through the casino. Feliciano attempted to study the world in great detail, remembering his hand in the process so that he could prove to Lovino that he was getting better. If he could remember what was wrong, he could fix it.

The first thing that had caught his attention was the smell. It was strange, muddled in its arrogance. Feliciano could almost taste it, even; Sulphur. To have such a strong presence, amidst the bodies and the perfumes of the casino itself, meant that whoever Carriedo had taken enemy with prided themselves on their artillery. Only a classic could fill a room in such a way.

Next was the bodies. Feliciano looked upon them with reverence; there were just so many, tens of hundreds strewn across the floors, all staring at him. When Feliciano blinked all but one was gone. Elizaveta, only, different. He shook his head, deciding to focus on the floors of the casino instead.

Francis bared his gun, holding it close to himself as he walked—each step more agonizingly slow than the last.

"Where's my gun?" Feliciano asked quietly.

Francis shot him a strange look. "I—" he started, before once again cutting himself off, careful of what he said. "Stay quiet. You're going to get us caught."

So, they continued in silence. Feliciano studied the ways that the men around him spoke. It was an Asian language, so Carriedo had been right to suspect the Japanese. Had Kiku been a part of them? Had he come ahead, attempting to get a head start at something? Did he, like Biondelli and Alfred, have a personal vendetta?

They weren't aware of Francis and Feliciano as they two of them ducked behind tables and bars. A sheen layer of sweat covered the younger man. Francis had told him that the bullet had just grazed him—or at least was no longer in the wound—but it felt like a ton of bricks were sewn into the small area, always pulling him back and tearing as he moved his legs. The main exit was blocked, but so it seemed were the back ones.

"We have to make a distraction," Feliciano muttered as the two recuperated near the west end.

"No, it's too dangerous," Francis hissed.

"Then how are we going to get out?" Feliciano inquired. "We could use some of the harder liquor, make a maltav or—"

"Feliciano," he hissed, "don't make me hit you again. We are getting out of here without a distraction. Do you understand?"

Feliciano had grown to fear Bonnefoy's serious tone. It was usually always accompanied by a gun or a bouncer. Feliciano frowned in response.

He didn't want to wait any longer. He wanted to see his brother! How many days had it been? He had stopped counting.

But, he was getting better. If Francis told him that they weren't going to pose a distraction, then they wouldn't. Feliciano would prove to Lovino that he could get better.

"Feliciano, stop that, let's go."

Feliciano allowed the sleeve of his coat to fall. Right, no scratching. Together they fell into the 'arcade' hall. Bright games dinged and pulsed at them. An emergency exit lay at the back of the room, they would just have to get past the men that were prowling the loud area. "Stay here a moment," Francis ordered. Feliciano coincided. He disappeared around one of the games. Feliciano leaned against the wall, hissing slightly. The throbbing really was getting to be a lot. He felt dizzy. Scared that if he kept dipping he wouldn't make it out. He rested his head back.

Francis was back, pulling at him. "We have to go," he demanded. Feliciano nodded wearily, allowing the French man to pull him along.

Feliciano must not have heard the gunshot. Two Japanese men lay dead, obviously hovering near the door. Feliciano didn't see blood, though. Maybe Francis had just knocked them out? Whatever he did, he cleared the way. Coyly they exited.

The sun was bright in the February sky, clouded by winter's fog and a fuzzy outline. The world was cold. Feliciano pulled the coat a little tighter around himself, wishing his hair hadn't been damp. They hurried.

Feliciano hadn't realized that he missed Ludwig until he saw the blond, poised in the driver's seat. He looked more anxious than Feliciano had ever seen him.

"Are you okay?" he immediately demanded, rushing out of his seat to check the small Italian over.

Feliciano sent him a shaky smile. "Ludwig! You won't believe it! I—I—"

"We've got to go." Francis hissed. "Talk in the car."

Ludwig followed orders as always. Still, the smile on Feliciano's face stayed true. He was getting better. Ludwig would see. Ludwig would be proud! Even if he was at first a little embarrassed about being wrong. Feliciano didn't need to stifle his giggle, the pain of getting in the car did it for him.

"So, you left Lovino at the house?"

" _Oui_ ," Francis sighed. The casino was a million miles away.

"And he's still there?"

"I would think so."

"Ludwig?"

"Yes, Feliciano?" They were getting sick of him talking. He knew that; they had the same tone most of the kids from his childhood held with him. Irritated, tired. Still, Feliciano couldn't keep his anxiety at bay.

"Please, please, please hurry up. Be, you're not going fast enough!"

"Feliciano, calm down. We will get there when we get there."

Feliciano frowned, wriggling in his seat. His hand was swollen and bright purple, an interesting thing to look at but something that was agonizing to move. Still, he admired it against the blue of Francis's coat. They were almost similar in shade but different enough that they could blend. Feliciano liked it. Like a painting.

* * *

"Lovino!" Feliciano screamed as they pulled into the driveway. He wanted to jump from the car, he wanted to run into the house and find his brother and tell him the good news, but his injuries kept him from moving too far too quickly.

By the time he was to the door he was already chewing away the pains of his quick pace. "Lovino!" he cried again. He suffocated the thought that maybe his brother had left again. But, Lovino was okay and Feliciano was getting better! He threw the door open.

Swimming brown eyes met him. They were wide, worried, relieved, dying from anxiety and whatever else Lovino always kept locked away in his head. Feliciano fell forward, wrapping his older brother into a hug. "Lovino! Lovino you don't—you don't have to leave, Lovino!" He didn't mean to cry—no doubt Lovino thought him a baby as always—but the passion of the moment moved him. Not to mention the gunshot. His body wanted to fall further, his mind wanted to shut off. Too much excitement, too much blood loss, too much throbbing. It was all too much for him, but he didn't care. How could he? Lovino was back.

Even when Feliciano blinked Lovino was still there.

"Feliciano," Lovino said slowly. His words shook, his body trembled. "Feliciano, what do you remember?"

Feliciano pulled away from him. The movements were too quick, the dizziness threatened to send acid up his throat. Nonetheless, he smiled, bigger than he had ever smiled. "I remember everything, _Fratello_."

Did his smile fall when he fainted? He wasn't sure. He just knew that something in Lovino snapped in that moment because his brother's face had never looked so afraid.

* * *

"This is all your fucking fault!"

Feliciano blinked slowly, groaning. His body was on fire. A quick once-over settled his racing heart, as it wasn't literally on fire. He sat back, closing his eyes, wanting to sleep a little more. His head throbbed. The world was silent. Until it wasn't.

"No! No! You don't understand! Fuck you don't—" Lovino was screaming like a madman. Feliciano sat up, an attempt at being fully awake. Right! Lovino was back. He was okay.

He slowly stood, the screaming outside all murmuring into one block of seconds. Unsteadily he walked to the door. Feliciano was getting better, Lovino would get better, Ludwig would protect them both and they would protect each other. Feliciano reached out for the door handle, hissing when his hand moved. Using the other hand, he opened the door. Better, they would all get better, make each other better. Together.

Lovino held a gun to Ludwig's head.

"Lovino!" Feliciano yelled, stumbling out into the living area. Lovino hesitated. Or, maybe he was already shaking so much it only looked like hesitation. "Lovino! What are you doing?"

"This—" Lovino's breaths were heavy, agitated, disturbed. "—is your—fault!" He screamed again. "You've done this! Are you happy, you bastard! Are you fucking happy!"

Feliciano found his way across the room, stepping in the space between Ludwig and Lovino. They were supposed to get better together.

"Lovino," Feliciano sobbed, "please stop! Please! I—I—I'm getting better Lovi! I am. I remember. I—"

"Shut up!" Lovino shrieked. His gun trembled but never faltered from its position, now aimed at Feliciano's head.

"We're going to go to Germany," Feliciano continued, attempting to find his savior behind swimming eyes. Always dipping and turning. "Come with us, Lovino. Please, please, _Fratello_."

"No!" Lovino decided. "You're not going anywhere with him!"

"Why?" Was he forcing Feliciano to choose? Between his angel and his hero, who was more important?

Lovino's chin quaked, Lovino's body upset by a force Feliciano was becoming too well accustomed to. Tears streaked his brother's cheeks, his chin and his neck. He looked so sad, so lost, so helpless. Feliciano needed to reach out to him, to help him! It was Feliciano's turn to be a hero. It was his turn to save Lovino.

"Lovino," he cried, attempting to keep his tone level but finding it impossible. "Lovino, please. Why? Lovino, why?"

"I—I don't," he choked. "I don't want you to remember!"

"Lovino, I can get better. I can!" he promised, the force of a thousand suns behind his words. With Lovino anything was possible. If he had Lovino he could get better. He held on to the pain, to the guilt, to Ludwig. And Lovino would save him from the memories. He would hug him and kiss him and soothe his worries because that was what he always did. Because that was Lovino's job as his older brother! Feliciano could get better, as long as he had Lovino!

"No," Lovino broke. "Not if you remember."

"What don't you want me to remember?" Feliciano begged.

Lovino shook his head. Slow. Lost. The force of a million battling moons. Crashing and destroying in their wake whatever they could—blemishing the perfect surface of Feliciano's whole world.

"I—I can't."

"Lovino! Please! We can-!"

"I'm sorry."

Lovino never apologized to anyone for anything; except at that moment, when he cocked his gun and turned it on himself.

"Wait!"

Lovino was dead.

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTES**

 **Don't** _*clap*_ **Fucking** _*clap*_ **Kill** _*clap*_ **Yourself** _*clap**clap**clap*_

 **HISTORICAL NOTES**

 _N/A_


	15. Point of No Return

It was strange, a lazy faucet, running its course outwards before bowing back and down. It was draining him. Feliciano fell, grabbing up his brother's shoulders and holding them tightly against his chest. A lupine gaze stared up at him, no longer swimming. No longer brown, beautiful, struggling.

Feliciano shook his head, blinking away his tears. "Lovi, oh Lovi, you'll be alright. Don't worry, we're going to go to Germany," he promised dolefully. It was his job to save Lovino. He gently brushed away the hair on his brother's face, shaking off the hard chunks and warm liquid as he did so. Warm, wet; "Oh, _Fratello_ don't cry," Feliciano pleaded, kissing his brother's face.

Lovino was so sad. Feliciano planted another million kisses, ignoring the taste, ignoring the gravel and the hair. Lovino was sad, he needed him; Feliciano would be here for him. He smiled down, grabbing Lovino's hand and squeezing it. "We'll get better, I promise. I'll go back on the medication and I won't cry anymore. Well of course I'm crying now! I—I'm happy to see you. I missed you so much, _Fratello_. You don't have to worry anymore. I'm getting better." He rested his forehead against his brother's corpse. "You don't have to be sick. Germany has wonderful doctors, I hear. And—And Ludwig will take care of us." Staring, staring, black eyes no longer conflicted. "I love you so much, and now we can be together again because Ludwig will take care of us! He knows everything! Well almost everything," Feliciano giggled through his tears. "I don't think he's ever had to deal with voices in his head. But guess what! I can beat them. I can, I did!"

"Feliciano," Ludwig said quietly.

"Ludwig! Tell him, we're going to Germany, aren't we? –I know that you don't like him that much, Lovino. Just give him a chance. He's—You're going to help me get better, Lovi!" There was a hand on his shoulder. Feliciano turned. Blond hair, blue eyes. He could feel the fear climbing up his chest, his neck. He held Lovino tighter. "No, you can't have him. He's mine," Feliciano snapped. "Go away!"

The blond fell back. Feliciano turned to his brother. He was so quiet in his serenity. So calm. Feliciano cradled his body with a happy hum. "Be, so how was your time out. Francis tells me you were with him? It was a bit mean that you didn't tell me where you were going, but I understand. Did he make you anything to eat? Is French food good? I bet they have less sausages, I know you weren't to keen on those. Does Francis cook? Is he kind? I don't know much about his personal life, but he doesn't seem all bad. He did take care of you. So I guess he's our friend, then?" Feliciano swiped at his eye. Something on his hand caused irritation, he had to blink it away.

"And don't worry about that blemish," Feliciano cooed, padding at the wound. "The kids at school will think it's cool. Don't worry, Lovi. You don't have to be so mad at me!" He laughed. "It's hardly noticeable. Don't—worry—" he giggled, but only it wasn't out of happiness. It was a gurgling sort of giggle, one that fought off liquid flooding the lungs or food caught in the chest. It was painful, but Feliciano talked through it. Lovino was still so sad! He was Lovino's hero this time.

"I've—been practicing—my English—Lovino," he staggered violently. "And—my maths, Lovi. I—I have been practicing, you—you can be happy," he grabbed at his chest, his hand hurt, his heart threatened to stop.

"Feliciano!" Someone yelled from behind him. He weakly pushed him away.

"Quiet—Lovino is—is—trying to—" he coughed, letting go of Lovino's hand as he tried to breath, "sleep."

"Feliciano," his face was forced up. Drowning, water, black eyes straing, brown eyes dead as a lawyer paled—"Feliciano! He's dead!" The man cried.

Feliciano tried to shake his head, but the man had too strong a hold on his face. "No," he tried to laugh. Broken promises, broken bones, _breaking_. "He's just sleeping, don't worry. He's a heavy sleeper. Won't be up before noon."

The man blinked, tears falling down his face. "Feliciano, please,"

"Don't cry, you're okay." Feliciano outstretched a timid hand, pressing it against the other's face. A strange shade of brown mixed with his tears, beautiful blue eyes sparkling at him. Feliciano offered him a small smile. "What's wrong? You can tell me."

The man just stared at him. He looked broken, like words couldn't describe what was wrong. "Feliciano leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. Another smudge. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But if you don't mind staying a bit quiet? My brother has been through a lot lately. Kids at school are being mean to him. He keeps getting into fights, and I don't know why. So please forgive me for my request."

"Feliciano," he whispered.

"That's me," Feliciano agreed with a nod. "And what's your name?"

"Say my name."

"What do you mean?"

"What do you mean what do I mean?"

"You've said it before, Feli. I know you know how. Just say it."

"My—My name?" The man asked.

"My name is Feliciano Vargas—but you already know that. Now what's your name?"

"You know my name."

"What do you remember?"

"About what?"

"Anything."

"I remember lots about lots. Oh! Have we met before?" Feliciano suddenly felt very bad. "I'm sorry, but I don't seem to remember your name! If—If you tell me what it is, I'll be sure to remember it this time! I promise!"

The man pulled away from him. He sat on his heels, looking upon the boy with disbelief. "What do you mean that you don't remember my name?"

They must have shared a conversation! The guilt swirled in the Italian's belly. "I—I've just been so busy lately," he tried to excuse. "I forget little things like names and faces sometimes. But if you'll just remind me."

A sudden burst of a door caught the two of them off guard. Thankfully it didn't wake Lovino. A blond man in a soiled undershirt burst through the door. Golden brown curls were messy around his head, and his facial hair needed to be trimmed. "What happened?" he demanded. His Italian was broken by an accident Feliciano knew to be French. Lovino had been teaching him French lately—though only the bad words. He wasn't sure if Lovino knew anything in any language other than the bad words. The French man fell to his knees, coming close to him and Lovino. He reached out, tears rimming his eyes. "Mon Cherie," he whispered lowly.

Feliciano held Lovino closer, giving the man a doubtful look. Lovino had told him that French were creeps. "Be, he's sleeping. Please leave him be, sir."

The French man sent a weird look at the other man. He looked confused.

"Felicaino," the blond man with beautiful eyes muttered, "Feliciano can you do what I say?"

Feliciano blinked over at him. "I—Okay, I think so."

He nodded. Sitting down fully, he ordered the Italian to face him. Feliciano shook his head, insisting that he had to make sure Lovino was comfortable, but the man finally talked him into lying his brother down with something under his head. Feliciano planted one last kiss to his brother's head, wishing him a quick recovery.

"Okay, now face me." Feliciano did as he was told. "Close your eyes." Again, he followed orders. "Where are you?"

"I don't know exactly." Feliciano admitted.

"Do you know what city you're in?"

"Uhm," he bit his lip. Where were they living now? "Verona?"

There was a bit of an awkward silence. Feliciano dared peek. The man was looking down at his hands with a thoughtful frown. "Manarola?" he tried again, fearful of being wrong. "I'm sorry, we move around so often these days."

"You're in Naples," the French man interrupted.

When had he come to Naples?

"Oh, okay," Feliciano quietly accepted. "I—uh I'm sorry if we caused you any inconvenience—uh—sirs, but I'm sure that our mother—"

"Your mother is dead." Came a new voice.

Feliciano opened his eyes, shooting his attention to the newcomer. It was a tanned man with crazier hair than that of the French guy's. His attire was tattered, his eyes were tired but focused.

"Antonio!" The French man gasped. "You made it out! How—"

The man, Antonio, threw something forward. It looked to be an envelope, the words _Mio Fratello Caro e Dolce_ written neatly on it's front. It was Lovino's handwriting. "Found this a couple days ago. I never thought that—that he'd," the man turned away, obvious anguish flickering across his features. He put a hand up to muffle what Feliciano could only imagine to be a cry. The Italian's heart went out to this man, for whatever made him look so lonely.

Feliciano climbed over Lovino, playing with the envelope until the letter concealed was perfectly revealed.

"Feliciano—I don't think that you should-!" the blond man shouted.

"To my dearest brother," Feliciano read aloud. "I hope that you know this is all your fault."

Feliciano could hear his brother's voice in the back of his head. He was trembling, Lovino was, scratching at old scars. Old because he was healing, because he was getting better. Ludwig would take them to Germany and then the rash would get better, too.

 _To my dearest brother,_

 _I hope that you know this is all your fault. At every opportunity you ruined my life. It was your fault that I had to drop out of school, it was your fault Grandpa made me join the mafia, it was you that killed our father. If you were never born, then we could have been happy. I was always protecting you from yourself, I was always lying to you, but not now. I can't now._

 _I killed myself because I can't take this anymore. I can't handle Roma bossing me around. Telling me to protect you, telling me to make sure you don't get caught, telling me to try and make you remember. It's always about you! Mother was the same. It was always about her dearest Feliciano._

 _I hate you, Feliciano. You're selfish, you're pathetic! And to top it all off you're a serial killer. I fucking hate everything about you. I wish that you would just remember and stop acting like such an idiot! Instead, you cry about stupid things. You cry about everything! I'm sick of it. I'm sick of you._

 _Do you even remember our father? Do you remember what he looks like? If not, take a look at me, because you put a bullet in his head, too. I loved our father. Unlike you and mom he wasn't crazy. He didn't kill people or fuck the whole world only to preach about some sort of stupid redemption._

 _Do you remember that one boy that you killed? The one that you had a crush on. Well, I found him after you forgot about him. At least, I found most of him. Never did locate his tongue. Tell me, Feli, why was that? How was that going to save either of you? And now you're planning on falling for that German bastard that looks just like him. How long after you murder him will you be able to remember? Because you didn't remember Gabriel for that long._

 _At first, I wanted you to forget all about me. I never want anything to do with you ever again. But now that I think about it, I hope that you do remember me. I hope that you remember how much I despise you. I hope that you remember everything so that you know why! You're a monster, Feliciano. You've killed so many people that I can't keep count! I'm not one of your victims. One day you would have killed me, I know it, so instead let me make this fucking sacrifice. Let this letter remind you of everything that I hate about you. That everyone hates about you._

 _I'll be seeing you in hell,_

 _Lovino Vargas._

Feliciano could hardly see by the end of it. His tears dotted the page, smudging the messy ink. Lovino was dead. Feliciano was a monster.

Images had played a roll as he had read. The image of his mother, a lustful look on her face as she escorted a man away from their front door; their father and his fists; blond hair and blue eyes. Feliciano shook, standing over the lifeless body of the man who he thought was going to help him get better. Feliciano closed his eyes, allowing the note to fall to the floor.

"Feliciano, it's not true," Ludwig attempted, coming forward.

"No-!" Feliciano backed away, shaking his head. Dipping, spinning, never finding solid ground. "No, it's all true! It's-!" he sobbed into his shoes, attempting to concentrate on the pain in his fists. "No, Lovi is right. He's right! I—I—"

Lovino hated him. Lovino was going to help him get better, had tried to help him get better, but Feliciano was a lost cause. If Lovino couldn't help him, and Ludwig was wrong, then there was no stopping Feliciano. Feliciano was a monster.

He backed up further when he could hear footsteps shuffling toward him. "No! Stay back! I don't want to hurt you!" His hands were covered in blood. Lovino was dead.

He had killed his father, he had forced Lovino to kill himself, he had been the reason they were caught by Roma—he was the reason his mother was dead. Everything of pain led back to him. To his forgetfulness, to his selfishness. It was all his fault. All of it!

Feliciano would have gone for the gun if there weren't a pair of arms holding him back. "No," came the shuddered breaths of his German companion, "no he's not."

Feliciano put all his strength into pushing the blond away. "Get off of me!" he screamed. "Go away! Go away! I don't want you here!"

"Feliciano, please—"

"No!" Feliciano darted for the door.

He had to leave before he hurt someone else. He was supposed to be Lovino's hero but he had been to callous, too late, too weak. The world outside had grown dark, frost nipping in the air. Feliciano didn't care that he was hardly dressed, it felt nice on his skin. Freezing what tried to boil over. He ran as fast as he could.

Being out of town he soon found himself surrounded by nothing. Though, soon wasn't really the term he would have used. His body collapsed on the ground, exhausted. He curled into himself, balling his eyes out. Lovino was dead, he told himself again and again, Lovino was dead.

In his pocket he found the small metal cross that Ludwig had given him. However, he didn't see in what capacity he was even allowed to try and pray. He was a monster. No one above would listen. Lovino was dead and he was a monster.

He wasn't sure how long his journey lasted. He just knew that he walked until he couldn't. He just knew that people stared at him like he was a mad man. He just knew that they weren't real but that, in the darkness of the night, when the whole world was quiet and he wanted nothing more but to die, they soothed his thoughts with suggestions and reminders of everything that he was. He was a monster.

The ember in his belly had never been brighter. Feliciano liked to look down at it sometimes, staring just to watch as it grew with every dripping thought. Tap, tap, another dart in the wood.

Feliciano didn't know how long his journey lasted. He just knew that it hurt. He just knew that everything hurt. The wound in his hip had turned purple and started to smell weird. The scratches down his arms and on his legs had gotten progressively worse, and he stuck himself in seclusion. He smiled sometimes, thinking about how he must have looked. He was finally fitting the bill of the monster he was.

Feliciano didn't know how long his journey lasted. And he wasn't sure where he was when it ended.

"Say my name," the boy behind him pleaded again. Feliciano didn't answer him. The world was too beautiful to put such dark things into perspective. He stood on the edge of a cliff over looking what must have been the Mediterranean Sea. Cold breezes lifted of the water, parrying with the thin figure that stood against the rocks. Crashes below him beckoned for attention, far away boats trudged slowly along their course. Feliciano watched.

He wasn't exactly sure when he decided to jump. Maybe it was when he had started crying again. Maybe it was when he started thinking about the hunger that was eating away at his bones. He had become a person of fiction. People don't really wonder for days upon days, looking for salvation or peace or an answer to what they were looking for. People didn't kill and forget or push their loved ones to die. People didn't, but monsters did.

Maybe that's when he decided to do it. When he decided fully that he was a monster.

"Feliciano!" he could hear in the back of his mind. He closed his eyes, relishing in the foreign bad words. The world was growing progressively darker, the sun having set and the greens of the waters looking especially promising in his mind's eye.

He allowed himself to lean forward, the dying winds picking up the further he fell. He allowed his hands to relax, he took his mind away from his hunger and from the ember in his tummy. For the first time in what felt like forever, Feliciano allowed himself to feel nothing.

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTES**

 _Finally done writing Feliciano's POV. Honestly killed me. Anyway, next chapter is the resolution chapter. Heads up, it's in Ludwig's POV_

 _This is a short chapter, but I didn't want to get lost in the kid's head again. I may go back and edit it later, but I am honestly ready to move on from this piece of angst xD Somehow I went back to being twelve_

 _For everyone coming from Lovino's story: trust me, I hate him more than you do._

 _Thank you everyone who has read up to this point! Be sure to favorite/bookmark if you enjoyed it, and stick around for the last chapter, as I try to offer something of a deal to you guys._


	16. Soldier

_"He doesn't fucking love you. He just likes what you look like!"_

 _"You're hurting him. If you actually cared—"_

 _"Do you understand what you're doing?"_

 _"You have no idea how many times I've had to stop him from killing himself!"_

* * *

Ludwig couldn't do anything but sit and stare as the soft, obsessive, dinging of the car told him the door was open. Francis walked around the vehicle, opening the passenger door, attempting to get him to come out.

"You said you wanted closure," he muttered. His tone had grown harsh over the last two weeks, though it didn't help that he was found at the gambling table every waking moment of it.

Ludwig just continued to fixate his gaze downwards. Beyond the dinging car and the French man's tone were waves. They crashed against a faraway shore, bashing rocks into sand, Italians into memories. Nothing had ever hurt Ludwig more than this. The guilt replaced whatever used to beat in his heart. It was his fault Feliciano was dead.

Lovino's bellicose screams still gnawed away at his psyche. He had been the one that continuously pushed for Feliciano to remember. Being under order didn't excuse anything. He should have been stronger, should have said no. He didn't, and now that kid that talked too-much about nothing and liked his cooking and was so climactically broken was dead.

Francis had been the one to affirm it. He had watched the Italian fall, had tried to save him but was ultimately unable to. Ludwig knew that Francis couldn't put past the Vargases deaths. He had been under direct orders from Roma Vargas to make sure neither one of them got hurt.

Ludwig wondered when the hitman would come. It was strange that Francis spent so much time publicly gambling, knowing that any second a gun would be pointed at his head and he would be dead. Maybe the publicity made him feet better. Maybe he felt that Antonio would save him.

Antonio was in no better shape than the rest of them. He had been so angry when Feliciano had run off, torenting around town, sitting on the verge of debasement of his name. If it hadn't been for Francis, he would have threatened a cop.

Gilbert had beckoned for him. Alfred was in a stable condition, and when he was ready to move out—which could be a few more months, though the American didn't do boundaries well, it seemed-Gilbert planned to track Braginsky down in Russia. He had told Ludwig that he was awaiting his arrival. Now that Feliciano was dead there was no reason for Ludwig to stay here.

Gilbert was right.

Ludwig should have never come to the cliff. Somewhere down the line Ludwig had become everything that he hated.

Stepping out of the vehicle, Ludwig strode over to the cliff. He looked down. The setting reminded him of something out of Lord of the Flies by William Golding. He could only imagine what Feliciano had been going through, screaming at the tormentors in his head before falling over, brain matter spilling over the rocks before being facetiously licked up by the snickering waters. His knees were weak.

* * *

There was no way out. Ludwig pressed his palm against his eyes. The train rumbled beneath him melodically. He needed to stop thinking about it—stop thinking about everything. Lovino's note was secured in his pocket, burning something of a hole in his pants. It didn't make any sense. From what Lovino had told him to what he wrote—had he been hoping Feliciano would kill himself?

He was able to stay on this line of thought for a while, pushing down the foreboding thoughts of his own. He knew, was uneasy about, what his mind would traipse to when it was quiet. When he wasn't thinking about the pair of dead Italians or taking up estranged conversation with strangers. He never used to do that before. Books just weren't sufficing it.

Gilbert picked him up from the platform. His expression read that of worry, but Ludwig knew that Gilbert was rarely worried about anything outside of the mob business.

Francis was dead by the time he had made it to Germany. Antonio was on the run.

* * *

"No, please," Ludwig yammered halfheartedly, looking down at the floor. Roma sat in front of him. He had made a trip all the way to Germany. His brown eyes were black in the lighting, messy hair neat and back, gun ready at his hip. "I tried, but your orders are what pushed him to kill himself."

Gilbert hissed something of a warning. It was so quick, so contradictory, but Ludwig didn't care. He was too tired to care. Too angry. He lifted his gaze, hoping his glare didn't fall flat, not really caring if it did.

"You should have listened to Lovino," Ludwig screamed. His martial attitude didn't phase Roma, the aged Italian glared right back. "If you're going to kill me then just do it," Ludwig sneered, standing from his kneeled position on the floor, "because I'm done here."

* * *

Gilbert screamed at him the rest of the night. He shouldn't have walked out on Roma Vargas, he shouldn't have said those things, but he didn't care. He couldn't care. He was too angry, but he didn't know at what or why or how to fix it. He just knew that Gilbert was screaming at him.

He bit something back, telling Gilbert to mind his own business, or something along those lines. He wasn't sure because he just couldn't care about what was happening. He didn't care how this could affect the Beilschmidt business, he didn't care if his life was at stake. He was just so confused and angry and there was no real way to say that it was anything else because it was just that—a festering irritation that bound his shoulders and chest.

* * *

He burned Lovino's note after tearing it to shreds. It didn't make sense. Nothing made sense! What had Lovino been thinking? Why did he do this?

But Ludwig knew, somewhere deep down, that he didn't care about such trivial things.

At least it kept the big questions from fevering his thoughts.

What was the meaning of life?

Why was he here?

Why did he always follow orders—what did it mean to live?

How could he escape the Beilschmidt name?

* * *

He stayed close to Gilbert as they walked, but not close enough for it to be obvious that he was doing so. He had been in Germany a month now. Loud noises still caused his anxiety to spike, and in the city one just didn't escape from the noises; people talked, things crashed, cars let out bursts of exhaust. He just stared forward, his lips clamped shut as he did so. Occasionally, he would see someone seemingly following them—maybe it was just his paranoia—but didn't turn his head to look. He told himself it was good to do this. To make his stalkers feel that they had the upper hand with surprise, to ready his gun in case battle ensued, to not alarm Gilbert.

None of his plans panned out. They made it back to the apartment complex without any drama.

* * *

What was he doing? What did anything matter?

He had sought an answer with a German philosopher. Pulling the man from a Berlin university, he had asked him one simple question: What is the meaning to all this? He had inquired, trying not to sound as detached as he felt. What is the meaning of existence.

The philosopher had rattled off a few different theories that he probably taught to his classes. He explained Kant's Theory of Perception, A Marxist philosophy, delving into materialist approaches, the Greek views of form and mind and body, but none of it hit. Even Descartes "Cogito, ergo sum," though soothing in its ideals, left Ludwig feeling empty. Even emptier when he realized that there could literally be no meaning, that everything could be an illusion. So, sitting over a cup of coffee, ignoring the bashful hums and bangs of the industrial coffee maker, Ludwig asked him what he thought.

He thought that life, like beauty, lay in the eye of the beholder.

Ludwig decided that this was ludicrous, a cop-out to not believing anything.

So, he respectfully thanked him and left.

* * *

Three more philosophers he sought before he stopped.

One believed that life should be lived for a higher power—the people, or a religion, or even a macro idealism of oneself. Ludwig hated this. He didn't want to live for others. He was done being told what to do, never coming up with the right words to say because he always played on a script.

Another told him that life was irrelevant. That the thought of a material self should be forgotten, for our minds should be the main-focus. They shared that dualism denotes a binary opposition, that life was no larger than a moment-to-moment scale, but spirituality, everlasting, could be achieved—and that was the only reason life existed. To achieve some other form.

Finally, the last philosopher told him that life was just shit. Ludwig had laughed at this, barely, but it felt nice. He explained that he believed that consciousness was a by-product of the bain, practically meaningless. Ludwig could feel himself sinking a bit deeper when he said this, but the man hadn't noticed. He continued:

"To figure out the _meaning_ of life you first have to define life," he shared. "That means that you are either stuck between something foolishly religious or maddingly realistic. We're either Gods or animals. Of course, such a statement is a straw man, over simplified, a fallacy, but I'm sure you will be able to follow my line of thought if we leave it at that."

"If you believe us to be Gods, then you have already latched onto a meaning. You have decided to live for a higher cause, for a form of immortality. This is the easiest meaning to fall back to. It's comfortable. It means that death is just a scary thought. Of course, people searching for a way of power can morph this comfort into a thing of power—a way to build empires. Control the God and you control the people that pray to him. So, it must be handled carefully. If you believe that your life is just part one to an everlasting one, then the meaning is to find peace. You are looking for some sort of closure to the drama of being human, to enlighten yourself with knowledge and philosophy, while also always working. As human beings we find it very hard to give up all conflict. Buddhist seem to strive for a reality without any worldly conflict, so they must stick to schedules and rules. That is the life of a God. You must follow the rules. The question that plagues this group now is _who_ exactly gets to write the rules. Because script is scratched by a human hand."

"If you believe us to be animals, then you're going to have to live with the obscurities. You must question everything, always, and never really know if anything you come up with is right. You get to come up with your own morals, but there will always be room for criticism—both foreign and personal—there will always be another way to do things, and if it is all simply material you can't be certain that any of it matters because the material world will end. You will die, the world will die, and nothing will matter. It's a void. So, to feel better about being an animal you must take yourself out of a macro mindset or else you'll kill yourself. You'll push yourself so hard, attempting to leave some mark on a ticking bomb, and drive yourself insane."

"If you believe us to be animals you have to realize that you are then based on your experiences. If you want to figure out the meaning of life you must first figure out the meaning of yourself. You are not a soldier for a God, some sacrifice, you are human. You are a who, not a pawn. So, who are you? You are a creation of your society, your peers, and your make-up. Your consciousness is not a part of some big scheme, it is just the product of your brain, a list of neurons and their activities. It's depressing put that way. That's because being an animal is depressing. There's no bigger than life cause, no chosen ones, no elation. There's want, need, and death. A lot of work for only a fraction of a reward."

"But that doesn't mean it doesn't matter. Sure, you may not be a part of some pretty picture, sure you'll burn out, but at least you can't fuck up, right?" He laughed at this. Ludwig watched him. His mien was unbothered, as if all these things had become fact in his head. Something of a comfort, even. "There is of course no free will in either theory. If you're a God you are controlled by a God and do as you were written to do, if you are an animal you are morphed by your own make-up, hormones, and experiences and it can be argued that none of you is originally you. Even if you walk out of here today and decide to change something about yourself because of this information, it will only be you acting on an experience. You are a product as an animal, a soldier as a God."

"But meaning still lies in both. To be a soldier is to be painted in a higher light. Its euphoric, fighting for a cause greater than yourself. Most importantly, it produces a clear goal. Meaning is often tied in with goals. What are you doing and for what? When you march to war you are fighting for your country, for a brighter future for the next generation, for an ideology. Being a soldier is good. It's admirable."

"To be a product means to proliferate. It is a life of continuous discovery. Voyagers do not loath the land they discover because the land already existed before they discovered it. They bask in the completion of a goal as they share their knowledge with the world. That's what being a product means. It's giving to a whole world of knowledge that will only matter whilst it exists. You get to develop, you get to raise, and you get to change things. I think that's the biggest difference. One is already set in stone, the other is a lump of clay. You just must decide whether you're a rock climber or an artist. Whichever you choose puts you in the place of a teacher, though."

"So, decide. Which one are you? God or animal. What are you living for? If you draw a blank, then ask yourself what you admire about those who are already living. Everybody has a goal. Goals are what keep society running and cause kingdoms to rise and fall. What is you goal? That is the meaning of life." He sent Ludwig a prudent wink. "Coming from an old fart, anyway."

* * *

Ludwig hated everything that all the philosophers said. None of them made exact sense—none of them were a science. He could think through every argument or explanation. Slippery slopes fogged his head.

Was he God or animal? Why did he have to choose?

Midnight had long since settled over the mind. The window shut off the world outside, the people chanting something Ludwig was oblivious to. He just stared at the reminiscence of ashes in a can. Of course, they were long gone. The note was destroyed. The Italian who wrote it was buried under the statue of Mary, memorabilia of his brother nestled right next to him.

Ludwig tried to mollify the flare of distinct exasperation that attempted to snuff out his nonchalance. "Why did you do it!" Ludwig screamed suddenly, standing from his place and kicking the can as hard as he could. It crashed against the wall, upsetting a bookshelf beside it. "Why did you kill yourself! Why did you say those things? Why! What was the point!" He screamed at the can, unable to share his profundity with the object. "If we are separated between soldier and product, what are we if we kill ourselves?" He demanded aggressively. "What is the point! Why—Why did you do it?"

He was so broken, Feliciano was. At first Ludwig hadn't believe what they told him. Well, he did, but not when he met the man. He had seemed so happy just to have someone to talk to. He mourned his mother, he talked of a higher power. When Gilbert performed the public execution, he had been so strong with his disapproval. Even if he sobbed through the whole thing, he had stayed strong through that.

He had stayed strong when he was kidnapped. When he was forced into battle, when Ludwig himself pressed a gun to his head. Repudiate to the world of the mafia. He was strong until he wasn't.

"You killed yourself because you're a coward," Ludwig cried, staring into the floor. "You didn't have a goal, you weren't strong. You were no better than Lovino, against everything and anyone."

No matter what he said, the guilt in his heart never subsided.

* * *

Gilbert's sagacious words played in his mind. "Get the fuck over it. They're dead, you're not." They had been insolent when he had said them, when he had barged into Ludwig's room to yell after Ludwig's outburst. The older German was getting tired of Ludwig's attitude, his silence. Now, though, as Ludwig filled his schedule with busy-work, as he prepared the final list of his crew, they rolled around like rocks.

They're dead. He's not.

They're dead.

The thing about being God or animal is that, no matter which side one lies one, which place on the greyscale one chooses, they will die. Everyone dies.

They were dead.

He wasn't. Yet.

He would be dead one day, so what did all the trivial things mean, really? What did this empire, being built in the shadow of his grandfather, only to fall like his grandfather—a shoot-out in the middle of the street fueled by a satiric grudge—mean? In the end it would mean nothing. In the end it would be a superfluous grab at money. Inflation would make them look like fouls. Empires fall, people die, what was the point?

Ludwig opted for a day in bed, leaving Gilbert to pick up his slack.

* * *

The day turned into a week. He didn't want to move. He just stared. Gilbert had come in to berate him once or twice, but Ludwig had hardly listened to what he said. He was tired.

"You look like shit," Gilbert said when Ludwig came out. Ludwig scrubbed at his eyes, the brightness of the rest of the apartment a bit too much to handle.

"You're here?" Ludwig asked.

"Yeah, Frank is handling the new recruits," the albino mused over his paperwork.

"Is anyone coming over tonight?"

"Yeah, Watts and his wife along with their kids," Gilbert scribbled something down. "They're going to be staying with us for a while, actually."

"What do you mean?"

"Their place is being surrounded by cops. I'm moving them out. We have an extra room the squeeze won't be impossible."

"But—"

"You don't get a say in this," he sighed, giving Ludwig another once-over. "We're offering our hospitality to our brethren, Ludwig."

Gilbert must have had some sort of family complex. One was either his brother or his enemy. It made Ludwig feel dismal, just another part of a spectrum.

* * *

Watts and his family were kind. Mrs. Watts was a stiff-lipped woman, but she never had anything bad to say. The children, three—Gloria, Shawna, and Wilhelm—were a change of pace. It had just been Ludwig and Gilbert—though there seemed to be someone over all the time—but now there was a family. They fought, a mother scorning her children when they got out of line, the coffee growing stronger every day. The children were personally escorted to school every day, on days off they cluttered the small television to watch cartoons and fight over toys.

Soon Watts grew to become the Beilschmidts' underboss. He was good at his job, ruthless when it was needed, calm and collected everywhere else. Never once did he breathe a word of the business to his kids. Gilbert enjoyed his humor, Ludwig his collective conduct.

"Why don't you raise them for it?" Gilbert asked as he, Ludwig, and Watts walked. He was referring to the kids, that much was obvious.

"It's not a life I want them to get caught up in," he admitted. "If they end up being part of the mob, it will be because they decided to be part of it. I will warn them then, try to convince them to change their mind. This isn't a profession anyone should be pushed into, and I am not going to do what my parents did with me."

"It's dangerous, though, not warning them. Cops are in and out of the area all the time. What if they get picked up and questioned?"

"Then they get picked up and questioned. Business stays business. When I get home it's family time." He fixed Gilbert with a stubborn smile. "That's the way I run my family. I will not change my ways, ever."

* * *

He threw the gun in his glovebox. It was still warm.

"What to get something to eat?" Gilbert asked, climbing into the driver's seat.

Ludwig frowned out the window.

* * *

The day that everything went to hell Ludwig was feeling better than he had in a while. Having kids in the apartment kept him out of bed, kept him moving, kept him busy. When it became a nuisance he always had work elsewhere to wrap himself up with. Slowly he was able to concentrate day-to-day, philosophers forgotten and Italians evanescent.

A small satchel hung loosely from his hand, wrapped once or twice around his wrist just-in-case a thief was so bold. It was filled with nothing important to the moment. Nothing important to him. He was just playing messenger.

The train platform bustled. People pressed this way or that, talking in rushed languages—some German, others not, tourism common in the early summer months—over phones and to companions beside them. The train was a few minutes from arriving, so Ludwig waited patiently, standing, staring at the ad, graffitied to the point of disguise, across from him.

The distant throttle of an oncoming car shook the walls. Ludwig readied himself, straightening his posture and looking away from the tags. He stood on the west end of the platform, the train arriving from the east. Lights basked in the tunnel, blinking, staring forward.

It all happened so quickly. The platform was so big, so full. Before anyone could stop her, a woman jumped the railing, throwing herself in front of the train. Ludwig stared. Stared as the train came to an abrupt stopped. Stared as people were rushed off the train, as police filled the area. Ludwig stared as he was run into from thirty different directions.

What had happened?

Batter splat the wall, a white bag and a stretcher was brought in. The platform was so big and Ludwig stared.

What had she been thinking?

Was she feeling the same as Ludwig was? Did she question the meaning of the universe, of her place in the world? Who mourned her death? Was there a note? Did she regret it in the last moment?

Ludwig turned and left. He couldn't be there at that moment, couldn't watch as they cleaned up the body. He would take the long way.

That night he couldn't take it. He couldn't take his thoughts, the flashing memories, the doubts. He wanted to scream, but he knew his words wouldn't matter anyway. None of it mattered. Nothing mattered!

The kids were asleep. He couldn't yell. So, he did the only other thing he knew how to do: he picked a fight with his brother.

Gilbert seemed to have grown used to Ludwig's snide comments when the younger of the two was down. Tonight's was no less harsh than what it had been the last time. "Ludwig," he hissed, "stop being a child."

"Oh, you're one to talk!" They stood outside the apartment. A cigarette was clamped between Gilbert's lips, Ludwig twirled his own in his fingers. "The most immature person I know!"

After a while Gilbert reacted. They scuffled, falling to a yelling and punching battle in the streets. Both had venom on their lips. Their aggravation hot air.

"Ever since we came back from Italy you've been a wreck!" Gilbert screamed. "So a kid fucking killed himself!"

"I helped!" Ludwig cried. "I helped!"

"No, you didn't!" Gilbert pushed him away. They had been circling, wrestling, pushing and punching. Both panted but neither was ready to stop.

"I did! He needed my helped but instead I listened to you!" Ludwig barked. "You don't believe in family! If you did then you would care more about this! You used to tell me that the Vargases were our family. Grandpa used to say it too. But when it comes down to it you don't care!"

"Family is everything," Gilbert snapped. "The Vargases were our family, but they went off the rockers. I can't help that. You need to stop living in the past! Leave it be!"

"The Abbes used to be our family. The Hoffmans and the Russos. What happened to them, Gilbert? What happened to that part of our family?"

"They betrayed us! You're really grabbing at strings, now!"

"You don't care!" Another punch replied to with a swift kick in the younger German's stomach. "You don't care about anything but money and power!"

"Ludwig!" Gilbert sneered, fully flying at him and knocking him off his feet. "Shut up! You don't know the half of it! You don't think right! You think that I don't care about family? That I rather money? Money means nothing when you've isolated yourself, Ludwig! You know this! How was the fucking six months away from us? Were you lonely or did you try and find another god damn basket case to fawn over? Being alone fucking sucks, Ludwig. No amount of power could make up for it!" Ludwig tried to speak, Gilbert spat at him. "I don't give a shit about the fucking business. I did it because that's what our family wanted for us. Do you understand? You're not the only following fucking orders. I just find something along the way to focus on."

"You act like an angsty fucking teen lately, you know that?" Gilbert continued. "You mope around, and when you're not doing that you go all soldier on me. Life isn't that bad. Do you think someone is out there doing what they want all the time? No! People make sacrifices. I grow our name and influence so that I can make our family proud and strong. What sacrifices are you making? What have you done for anyone else? You're a selfish brat and I'm getting sick of it!"

"This isn't about the Vargases," he decided. "This about your own inability to grow up. Stop blaming yourself for Feliciano's death. I knew him when he was a kid. He's been wanting to kill himself for years now. Every time he remembered that his life wasn't out of the fucking bible he went for a gun. Without Lovino there was nothing holding him back. Especially not you. So, unless you're going to fucking blame the way you look, get over it."

"Maybe I don't want to be a part of some stupid family," Ludwig screamed. "If it means this? I would rather be alone! What are we doing? What do we matter! We're just killers. Loyalty isn't everything!"

Gilbert stepped back, looking over his younger brother. "Yeah," he murmured. "What does family matter when you can kill yourself instead?"

"You said this wasn't about the Vargases!"

The older German turned. "It's not," he said, walking away, leaving Ludwig completely defeated in the road.

Gilbert's goal was family, that much was clear, but he cared so much for some idea of family that he didn't care about his own blood.

* * *

Ludwig paced the streets, not giving Gilbert the satisfaction of seeing him cry. Gilbert was right. Ludwig was being too impulsive. He was either yelling or taciturn. Finding himself at a local bar he decided that he would throw back his feelings.

It had been the wrong decision. At first, he felt great. One too many caused the fog in his head to become poison. Three too many after that had him throwing up in the ally way.

Everything spun around him. He couldn't walk properly, and the pungent smell of his own vomit wafted in the air. He fell against the bricks.

"What am I doing?" he asked himself, staring at his hands. Putting his head back he closed his eyes. He couldn't move. Couldn't do anything but sit there. He had given up all control over his body, his mind only flashed with drunken images of his fucked up life.

At some point he woke up. The streets were filled with more than just drunks and gang members, now, and the sun was starting its rounds again. Ludwig stood.

He decided that this situation was pitiful. The headache, the vomit stained clothes, and tear streaked eyes. It was all so pitiful, but it helped ease the pain. The pain of what? Was Gilbert right? Was him clinging to the idea of the Italians just him running away from whatever his mind decided was worse?

Somewhere along the line, Ludwig had decided Feliciano was his ticket out. Feliciano wouldn't be able to take the mafia business much longer. If Ludwig was able to convince him to leave, if Ludwig was able to figure out a way to leave, then Feliciano would have run with him. They would be out of the business, they would have fled to Greece or something and been happy. But, Feliciano killed himself, killing all of Ludwig's hopes of ever escaping.

He was miserable because he was trapped. Trapped in a life of drama and crime.

* * *

Alfred was finally ready to leave. Gilbert, Ludwig, and the American met in a bustling Berlin airport, suitcases ready.

"Are you sure you don't want to stay?" Ludwig asked. "Business is still unstable."

"We're avenging our grandfather. Business can wait." Gilbert snapped at him before turning and picking up a conversation with Alfred.

Alfred looked anxious. He had to take six months before he was able to do anything. Gilbert said that he wasn't in great condition, but he looked together. He talked with Gilbert with a smile. Their conversations meant nothing.

* * *

Russia was amazing, scary, cold, and then all together too hot. Their journey had taken them all over the vast country. There were too many crews, too many trafficking stations, it was impossible to find one Russian. He seemed to be in hiding.

Alfred had steadily grown more and more distraught over the course of the journey. He killed quicker, spoke with a sweeter manipulation. His goal was to kill this Russian and he made it so personal that it seemed to be eating him from the inside out. Anyone that stood in his way was the enemy.

"Maybe we should give up," Ludwig sighed, collapsing on his bed.

"We're getting close," Alfred decided. He threw down his bag. It had been a while since he stopped covering up the three tattooed tears with makeup. Now they played with the shadows on his face, making him look beyond exhausted. "We just have to stay strong."

Stay Strong. It was what Ludwig had written on the cross he had Gilbert make for Feliciano. Feliciano had been stronger than him.

He sighed into his hands. The trip wasn't doing him any good. If anything, being locked in a series of rooms and transportation means with an American and his brother for months on end was making things worse. They were all irritated beyond vocabulary, none of them wanted to look at each other, and anytime they moved location or met someone new it seemed to come out fruitless. If they weren't fighting they were ignoring each other.

Ludwig decided that he wasn't in the mood for a fight and rolled over.

* * *

"Let's go, Ludwig." Gilbert demanded.

Ludwig followed orders.

* * *

What did he aspire to do after they caught this Russian? It seemed that today and tomorrow he was stuck being bossed around, but what about the day after that? What was he going to do then?

He was playing soldier. Just had to soldier through it. What was that one thing about soldier working for a higher cause? He was never good at painting.

Ludwig ran his fingers through his air. He was tired. He was just…so tired. Alfred was getting worse. There was more fighting between the three than ever. Still, the lot of them kept going.

They made friends with a Vasiliev _bratki_ in Yekaterinburg. They gave the trio the first clue that didn't fall flat.

Ludwig had a tight smile on his lips. The head of the Vasiliev family was talking to Gilbert about the course of action they were to take. Ludwig would never know why they decided a brothel was the best place to discuss. He stared forward the whole time.

From what it sounded like, they had a lot further to travel before they found him. There were too many webs.

* * *

They were in Russia for four years before, in an obscure snow ridden mountain side, Ivan finally fell. The journey to catch him had seen too much action, too many new friends that fell, too much war. But, it was over. It was finally over.

"Where are you headed now?" Ludwig asked Alfred.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I guess back to America."

"What are you going to do there?" Ludwig pressed. He felt like he was looking for the American to give him some sort of grand idea, something that he could latch onto and use for himself.

Alfred shrugged, shaking his head. "Nothing. I just want a peaceful life. I have some family in Oklahoma. They've been wanting me to take over the farm." He looked so much older than the thirty-four years he was supposed to be. "I think I might take them up on it."

Gilbert chuckled. "Get some poor country widow to fall in love with you?"

"What about you guys?" Alfred asked. The three of them had grown so close over the last four years. Ludwig was almost sad to realize he would likely never see Alfred again. "Back to Germany to continue business as usual?"

"With this under our belt I'm sure the Beilschmidt name will grow like never before!" Gilbert boasted.

Ludwig didn't say anything. The two of them talked more, but Ludwig sat just staring at the floor. Was he really going to be stuck in the mafia again? Sure, here he was a part of the mafia, but it was different. Like being a bodyguard, a day job. It kept him busy, made it so that he didn't really have to initiate much. He could just follow orders.

Was he really going to have to go back? He had tried to come up with a goal along the way. He thought of becoming a writer. Perhaps he could do what Alfred did and become a cop. He could go back to school to become a teacher, a doctor, a scientist. All he would have to do was be in a place that wouldn't recognize him.

His goal was to get out of the mafia. Still, Gilbert was right, he didn't want to be alone.

* * *

There was a drive that was lost when he no longer had an American to spew sappy inspiration at him. Ludwig fell into the daily life of a German mob boss. It was a strange change; talking orders to giving them.

A man asked him where he was going. Turning, Ludwig told him to mind his own business. The man was one of his recruiters, he had no right to ask a higher up something he had no business to know. Ludwig swiftly left the small meeting, his underboss capable of controlling things from where they had left off. A new boss in Italy was finally giving then Beilschmidts a chance. Their cocaine trade would be back to what it was—if not better—from a time when they had ties to Roma Vargas.

He quickly found himself at a small store. Mrs. Watt's, with her serious expression, stood at the front. The Watts had finally found a place and they had started a small business. The children had all aged, both girls now in secondary school while the boy, Wilhelm, still stuck in primary. Ludwig smiled at Mrs. Watts.

"Hello," he said.

"Hello," she offered politely. "What can I do for you today?"

He always came by to buy from them. It was a small store filled to the brim with arts and crafts. The girls were quite the artists, and Mrs. Watts, though she didn't look like it, was quietly skilled herself. Ludwig purchased a small tin boat.

"Turn the key," she told him.

Confused, Ludwig turned the boat over. Nevertheless, a small key sat on the bottom. Ludwig wound it.

"It's a religious tune," she shared. "One of my favorites."

"It is beautiful."

He found himself at a local church a few of his crew members frequented the next morning. He would give it a shot. Maybe it was what he was missing.

* * *

The musical tin boat rattled on. He sighed, flipping a page of his book. His head hurt especially today. There was a strain on his conscious that he hadn't expected to come from deciphering the religious text.

He decided a few weeks later that religion wasn't what he was looking for. He didn't need people to coo at him that he was alright even though they didn't fully know what they were preaching.

* * *

Gilbert looked so happy. He had finally found his family, a woman bearing his child. Ludwig wondered if it would come out albino, too.

Ludwig wondered if romance was what he was missing. Maybe he, like his brother, needed to find a family.

It took him a bit longer to decide that wasn't it. He had never been one for complicated sentiments.

* * *

If he couldn't find happiness through a higher power or others or himself, then what was the point of striving to be happy?

Another one of his men had been gunned down. That made four in the last month. Someone was either moving in or extremely pissed by the Beilschmidt name. Ludwig had work to do, he had no time to be thinking about such trivial things.

His goal was to get out of the mafia, but he had to finish what was started.

* * *

His nephew was growing up quicker than any child Ludwig had ever seen grow.

"He's just as crazy as you," Ludwig laughed. Gilbert grinned at him.

"He'll be a wonderful boss one day."

* * *

Ludwig found himself buying from Shawna today. She smiled up at him, babbling on about the tests that came with grade 10. Their crafts had slowly become something of a masterpiece, the girls eager and quick learners. Shawna said that she planned on going to school for arts so that when she was older she could take over the shop. Gloria was quick to pitch that she was older.

* * *

That made it seven, then; seven men dead in the last week.

* * *

The police were biting down on crime. Ludwig knew he was being followed every time he left his apartment.

A fun voice in the back of his head told him that police was an easy way out. No, business would thrive in a prison filled with mobsters.

* * *

He couldn't stop dreaming of the paroxysms of the Italians. Murder done in anguish, impulsive. Ludwig wondered if that was how this new Norwegian boss was killing. Or perhaps it was more like Alfred. Was there something personal Ludwig didn't know about?

His goal was to get out of the mafia, but it was impossible.

* * *

Gilbert sighed. "Please, Luddy, just for, like, a week." He begged. The small boy attached to his hand pulled at Gilbert's hand. The boy cried.

"Fine," Ludwig caved. He really wasn't a father-figure, but Gilbert needed to go to Japan for a while and the kid was too much of a burden to take anywhere.

His nephew was fine for him. Ludwig had an itching suspicion that he ran off of his father's energy—and the sugar Gilbert no doubt fed him.

Ludwig watched him, stacking blocks and muttering something before knocking his stack down and trying again. He didn't talk much, Ludwig was finding out, but instead screamed when he want something. Sighing, Ludwig made it his goal to teach this child how to behave properly.

* * *

"Thank you so much!" Gilbert chided. "Come here, buddy!"

* * *

It was impossible for Ludwig to get out now. There was too much. He was facing a war, and once that ended he would either be dead or controlling a whole lot more than what he already was.

Still, there was something the nagged at him every time he saw the girls at the Watts' business. Their father had been murdered. Their store was shut down for a few days before Mrs. Watts reopened it under a new name. Ludwig went to visit them, to give them his condolences.

There was a dinner held in the Watts' honor. He was an underboss. He was to be respected in death.

* * *

It was his goal to get out of the mafia, and sitting here, three children mourning their father and a stern-faced woman swallowing tears only secured that thought. Still, he couldn't get out. It was too late. This was a lifetime job.

His nephew took a great liking to one of the girls' necklace. She laughed as he tugged, muttering under his breath all the while.

* * *

He wasn't sure when he decided to confront Gilbert about it, but he did.

"What do you mean?" Gilbert demanded.

"I'm just saying that maybe you should give him the chance. Like Watts did."

"Watts had his own way to do things, Luddy. Leave me be with mine."

* * *

His goal had been to get out of the mafia, but now it was to get his nephew out before it was too late.

"It's called vicariously living," Mrs. Watts sighed. "I may not agree with your brother, but he's right, his decision is his."

"What would you have done if your husband tried to force them into it?"

"I would have left him."

* * *

"You went behind my back to try and make my wife break up with me?" Gilbert yelled, slamming the door of Ludwig's apartment.

"No! I just wanted her to see both sides of it!"

"You are not turning my son against me, Ludwig!"

* * *

The war would be coming to an end soon. Either the police would get those in their custody to talk or there would be so many casualties that recruiters would run out of men and women to recruit.

* * *

Ludwig was arrested in September. He was released in October, but Ludwig knew that the police wouldn't give up that easily. He was looking forward to three life sentences.

He sighed, scrubbing his cheeks. Maybe he would finally be able to have some quiet time.

* * *

Gilbert was the next to get arrested. Ludwig showed up to his trial but was refused access. It was a private trial. He paced outside the courthouse the whole time.

Gilbert wasn't going to be released. He was off to prison.

* * *

"Damn it!" Ludwig screamed, kicking his wall. Gilbert was locked up, he was next, and there was still so much to do! The Norwegians were making a name all around Germany and Ludwig couldn't keep up with them. He needed to fix the Beilschmidt ties with the Italians, he needed access to whatever this new drug on the street was.

He groaned, throwing himself into an armchair. He needed to lower his prices to keep up. He needed to convince more businesses that his crew would protect them. There was so much to do, he didn't have time to get arrested.

The fun voice was back, telling him to just let the Beilschmidt name die. If there was no legacy his nephew would be saved, wouldn't he?

* * *

"Do you understand?" Ludwig begged.

His sister-in-law shook her head. "No. I promised Gilbert that I wouldn't. He wants his family to stay strong."

"What does it matter when he's behind bars!"

She shook her head again, turning and closing the door.

* * *

What had Ludwig learned growing up in the mafia? He learned that he hated it, sure, but what else? That betrayal was more common than real loyalty? That people looked out for themselves first? That there was an evil only man could create within it?

What had that philosopher said to him? What was the meaning of life? How many people had been lost in these petty wars?

He imagined Lovino as he wrote. Was he in a similar situation? Booze helped clear his mindset as he scribbled.

The only question now was whether his nephew would get it.

* * *

"So, it's finalized?" Ludwig demanded.

"Yes, your will is set, sir."

Ludwig nodded, sitting back.

* * *

He wasn't going to kill himself. He wasn't a coward, and he didn't need to run from anything anymore. He had found a goal. Sure, it wasn't some lord or something big, but it was his. Gilbert spoke of loyalty and of family, and yet was too blind to know what those things truly meant. This business was not one to be forced into.

Was Ludwig God or animal?

It didn't matter. Both players were teachers. Ludwig didn't strive to sit in a classroom, he didn't want a woman and his own heir. He just wanted to get out of the mafia.

He wasn't going to kill himself. He was going to go after the Norwegian asshole that was destroying his brother's legacy. If he died trying, well, at least he knew there was something of importance behind him.

* * *

 **THE END**

 _Next chapter is the playlist. Full circle, babes. Don't forget to review. Criticism is highly HIGHLY welcome. Looking for another fic? Read_ Bury Me Alive _or_ Sacrificial Surrender _on my profile._ Sacrificial Surrender _is actually in the same universe as_ Remorse _, but if any of you guys are like me you need a little bit of a break before continuing on with this universe._

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTES**

 _This is long, whoops._

 _Okay, I know that this chapter feels out of place from the rest of the story, but there is good reason for that. I don't want to spell it out, but I'm sure someone gets it. Hi, someone, isn't it clever? I feel terribly clever._

 _Thank you, guys, for being cool and hating the alternate ending. I was afraid that I was the only one that despised it._

 _I apologize for the bits in Russia being a little bit rushed. It's just 1) that's Alfred's story to tell; and 2) I don't have all of it planned out and would hate to shoot myself in the foot._

 ** _LOVINO'S STORY "SACRIFICIAL SURRENDER" HAS BEEN STARTED. To continue reading this trilogy just head over to my account._**


	17. Bite Me

Each chapter name is a song that either goes sorta along with it lyrically or feeling-wise. It makes up the fic's playlist. I realized that putting up the song title didn't give you the song, because there are a lot of songs with the same title, so sorry about that. Also, I meant to only do one song per artist, but I guess Starset gave me amnesia and they turn up more than once. Whoops.

 **FIC PLAYLIST**

 _Mama_ – My Chemical Romance

 _The Mountain_ – Three Days Grace

 _Satellite_ – Rise Against

 _Toast to the Ghost_ – Bad Wolves

 _Omerta_ – Lamb of God

 _45_ \- Shinedown

 _Blood in the Water_ – Grandson

 _War of Change_ – Thousand Foot Krutch

 _I Apologize_ – Five Finger Death Punch

 _Fallen Angel_ – Three Days Grace

 _My Demons_ \- Starset

 _Rise_ – Fame on Fire

 _Bulletproof_ \- Godsmack

 _Point of No Return_ \- Starset

 _Soldier_ – Fleurie

 _Bite me_ – Sarcastic title that is telling you that, yes, I am aware this chapter isn't an official part of the story. _Bite me_.

You can find the Spotify playlist here: user/letusfallup/playlist/4aBYwZvYfrtEiF86HC3rjg


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